iiiiill 


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H  i  HI  lit  i)  illiCil' 


LI.  RA':Y 

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ARBaRA.i 


STATE  TEACHERS  C    L   FOE 
SA.STA  BARBARA.  CALlF'jRNIA 


i    \    ■  ■  ^ 


COLLEGE   READINGS    IN   ENGLISH 
PROSE 


THE  MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

HEW  VORK    •    BOSTON    •    CHICAGO   •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAK    FRANCISCO 

MACMII.LAN   &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON   •    IIOMIIAV   •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


COLLEGE   READLNGS 
IN    ENGLISH    PROSE 


SELECTED    AND    EDITED 
BY 

FRANKLIN    WILLIAM    SCOTT 

ASSISTANT   PROFESSOR    OF   ENGLISH    IN   THE   UNIVERSITY 
OF   ILLINOIS 

AND 

JACOB   ZEITLIN 

ASSOCIATE   IN    ENGLISH    IN   THE   UNIVERSITY   OF   ILLINOIS 


Wete  gorfe 

THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

1921 

AH  ngkl''   "c  served 


Copyright,  1914, 
By  the  MACMILLAN   COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  elcctrotyped.     Published  December.  1914 


Xorisooli  ^rrss 

J.  8.  Cunhlng  C...  -  Berwick  A  Smith  Co. 

Norw'xxl,  MaHA.,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

The  specimens  included  in  this  volume  may  lay  claim  to 
representing  a  greater  range  in  subject  matter,  in  typical  forms, 
and  in  levels  of  style  than  other  compilations  of  the  same  kind. 
Here  will  be  found  a  good  deal  of  that  literature  of  ideas  which 
forms  the  staple  of  some  recent  volumes  of  selections.  But  in 
addition  to  those  things  which  form  a  common  ground  of  interest 
to  all  students,  the  editors  have  taken  account  of  the  special 
interest  of  the  engineering  and  agricultural  student,  and  aimed 
to  provide  material  which  should  appeal  particularly  to  his  taste 
without  being  so  technical  in  treatment  as  to  baffle  the  lay 
intelligence.  To  diminish  further  the  "  literary  "  and  "  classical  " 
odium,  the  volume  includes  a  few  models  which  do  not  rise  above 
respectable  mediocrity,  mechanically  correct  and  workmanlike 
pieces  of  writing,  devoid  of  all  distinction  of  style  but  fulfilling 
certain  definite  requirements  of  modern  journalistic  practice, 
A  similar  purpose  is  served  by  the  appendix  of  student  themes, 
which  have  been  chosen  as  affording  a  standard  of  writing  which 
the  undergraduate  might  reasonably  be  expected  to  attain. 
It  is  in  accordance,  furthermore,  with  the  same  principle  of 
immediacy  of  appeal  that  a  considerable  proportion  of  the 
matter  has  been  taken  from  contemporary  writers.  Contempo- 
rary models  are  of  value  in  the  first  place  as  illustrating  the 
standard  practice,  but  they  have  an  additional  advantage  in  that 
they  do  not  overawe  the  beginner  as  the  mighty  masters  of  old 
are  likely  to.  They  are  helpful  indeed  in  emphasizing  the 
enduring  force  of  the  principles  which  underlie  the  practice  of 
the  traditional  masters  of  writing.  Between  the  acknowledged 
masterpieces  and  the  less  tried  material  in  this  volume  the 
editors  have  aimed  to  preserve  an  equal  balance. 

V 


vi  PREFACE 

The  reason  for  the  classitication,  the  particular  function  of 
each  selection  in  the  {;eneral  scheme,  the  analysis  of  features 
of  technical  and  stylistic  interest,  ami  the  explanations  of  facts 
and  allusions  necessary  to  the  understanding  of  the  text  consti- 
tute the  substance  of  the  notes.  Such  matters  as  diction,  sen- 
tence structure,  and  para<:;raphing,  as  well  as  larger  structural 
qualities  and  points  of  literary  technique,  are  briefly  discussed 
at  some  appropriate  point  in  the  notes  and  frecpiently  alluded  to 
throughout.  Out  of  fear  of  omitting  suggestions  that  some  stu- 
dents and  instructors  might  tind  helpful,  these  notes  often  risk 
the  peril  of  being  obvious.  Perhaps  they  need  no  other  apology 
than  that  those  who  find  them  superfluous  can  safely  neglect 
them.  The  secondary  classification  (in  Appendix  11)  of  Expo- 
sition and  Argument  according  to  the  kinds  of  material  and  of 
Description  according  to  features  of  technical  interest  is  in- 
tended as  an  index  to  the  difTerent  points  of  view  from  which 
the  material  in  this  volume  may  be  approached. 

The  editors  wish  to  acknowledge  their  obligation  to  pub- 
lishers and  authors  for  generous  permission  to  use  material, 
notably :  The  Macmillan  Company,  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons, 
Harper  and  Brothers,  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company,  T.  Y. 
Crowell  and  Company,  Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Longmans, 
Green  and  Company,  I).  C.  Heath  and  Company,  The  Century 
Company,  Columbia  University  Press,  University  of  Chicago 
Press,  Cambridge  University  Press,  TJu  North  Americaii  Review, 
The  Atlantic  Monthly,  The  Outlook,  The  Imlcpendent,  McClure's 
Magazine,  Edinbur}^h  Rerie^u,  Political  Science  Quarterly,  The 
(New  \'ork)  Nation,  Eni^ineerini^  Record,  Scientific  American,  The 
(New  York)  World,  Mr.  Fabian  Franklin,  Mr.  Arnold  liennett, 
Mr.  K.  Dana  Durand,  Mr.  Stuart  P.  Sherman,  Mr.  John  Dewey, 
and  Mr.  A.  E.  Shipley,  Head-Master  of  Christ's  College, 
Cambridge.  They  wish  also  to  acknowledge  their  indebtedness 
to  many  friends  for  helpful  suggestions. 


CONTENTS 


A.    Definitions; 


I.   EXPOSITION 


Slang 

What  is  Thought  ? 
Socialism 
Familiar  Style 
The  Aim  of  a  University  Educa 
tion        .... 


Henry  Bradley       ...  1 

John  Dewey   ....  2 

Ira  B.  Cross  ....  6 

William  Hazlitt     ...  14 

John  Henry  Newman     .         .  16 


B.   Explanations  of  Mechanisms  and  Processes: 


Making  Camp 
Breeding  Brown  Pelicans 
The  Formation  of  Vowels 
House  of  Representatives 
Mine  Helmets 
A  Mechanical  Dishwasher 
How  the  Panama  Locks  are  Op 
erated    .... 


Stewart  Edward  White 
C.  William  Bee  be  . 
Ediuard  B.  Tylor  . 
Woodrow  Wilson    . 
Joseph  Husband 
"  Popular  Mechanics  " 

'^Scienti^c  American  " 


18 
27 
30 
31 
43 
46 

47 


C.   Discussions  of  Facts  and  Ideas  : 

Beginning  of  Cabinet  Government 
The  Esthetic  Value  of  Efficiency 
The  Honey  Bee  .... 
The  Panama  Canal 
On  the  Physical  Basis  of  Life 
The  Middle  and  Lower  Classes  in 
England  under  the  Stuarts  . 
Inaugural  Address 


John  Richard  Green 

55 

Ethel  Puffer  Howes 

58 

A.  E.  Shipley 

70 

James  Bryce   .         .         .         . 

85 

Thomas  Henry  Huxley  . 

90 

George  Macaulay  Trevelyan    . 

99 

Woodrow  Wilson    . 

109 

VUI 


coM'i'.srs 


Lincoln  as  More  than  an  Anicri 
can         .... 

English  and  .\mcrican  Sports 
manship 

Sclf-ciillivation  in  Knghsh    . 

The  .Social  Value  of  the  College 
bred        .... 


Hfrbert  Croly 

John  Corl'in    . 
George  Hirlnrt  Palmer 

W'llliavi  James 


rAGB 

IB 

\1\ 
130 

137 


D.   Expository  Hioc.r.mmiv 

Francis  I'arkman  . 
Goldwin  Smith 


Ilcnry  Cabot  Lodge 
James  Bryee   . 


145 
149 


E.   Inform.m.  Ess.w  : 

The  Realm  of  the  Commonplace  L.  11.  Bailey  ....     165 

.•\n  .\pology  for  Idlers  .  Koheti  Louis  Stevenson   .         .     173 

On  the  Feeling  of  Immortality  in 

\outh Ifil/iam  ILazlitt     .         .         .182 


/'.   Revirws  and  Criticisms: 

Jane  Austen's  "  Emma  " 
On  the  "  Tatler  " 
The  Waverley  Novels . 
Mark  Twain 
Turner's  "  Slave  Ship  " 
On  the  Classical  Landscapes  of 
Claude 


IValierSeott  ....  19,'. 
William  LLazlitt  .  .  .201 
George  Edward  Woodberry  .  203 
Stuart  Pratt  Sherman  .  .  208 
Jo  An  Pus  kin  .         .         .         .214 

Jo/in  Ruskin  ....     215 


G.   Editori,\ls: 

East  and  West 
A  Vicious  Proposal 
The  Nation's  Pledge 
Wireless  in  Railroad  .Service 
.Absorption  of  the  Indian 
•-■Nationalism  and  Peace 


(Lj)ndon)  "  Times" 

.    219 

.     "  TAe  Outlook"       . 

.     221 

.     {A'trw  York)  "  World"    . 

.    223 

.     "  Engineering  Record  "  . 

.    228 

.     {.Ve-.u  York)  ''Nation"  . 

.     228 

.     {Ne7u  York)  ''Nation  "  . 

.     230 

CONTENTS  ix 

II.    ARGUMENT 

A.  Elements  : 

I.    Introduction,  huluding  Special  Issues 

The  Three  Hypotheses  Respect-  page 

ing  the  History  of  Nature     .  Thomas  Henry  Huxley  .  .  232 

Letter  to  General  McClellan        .  Abraham  Lincoln  .         .  .  239 

The  Case  against  the  Single  Tax  Alvin  Saunders  Johnson  .  239 

2.   Evidence 

Council  Government  7't'rj/^ J  Mayor 

Government  .         .         .         .     E.  Dana  Durand  .         .         .     241 
Professor  Huxley's  Lectures        .     £.  L.  Godkin  ,        .        .    248 

J.    Body  of  Argument 

Speech  on  Old  Age  Pensions      .     Arthur  J.  Balfour  .         .         .     257 
A  Defense  of  the  House  of  Lords     Sir  William  Anson         ,         .     271 

4.    Refutation  and  Conclusion 

The  Intellectual  Powers  of  Woman   Fabian  Franklin    .         .         .     276 

The  Mathematician  and  the  Engi- 
neer      .....     ^'■Engineering"      .         ,         .     291 

Popular     Control     of     National 

Wealth O.  C.  Barber  .        .        .        .296 

J.    Persuasion 

Address  at  Swarthmore  College  .      Woodro%v  Wilson    .         .         .     301 
Address  at  Gettysburg  .         .     Abraham  Lincoln  .         .         .     304 

B.  Elements  in  Combination  : 

The  Monroe  Doctrine  .         ,     William  Howard  Taft   .         .     306 


C.   Informal  Argument: 

— r[s  Agriculture  Declining .''    .         .  Kenyon  L.  Butterfisld 

State  Control  and  the  Individual  A.  D.  Lindsay 

Organization  of  Farmers      .         .  Kenyon  L.  Btitterfield 

The  Organization  of  Labor  .  Herbert  Croly 

Direct  Presidential  Nominations  "  The  Independent" 


324 
325 
327 
330 
336 


coy  TESTS 


III.    DKSCRIl'TION 


A.   Senses  : 

—Sunrise  at  Tort-of-Spain 
A  Tropical  Sunset 
Cloud  Kflfects 
The  Yellow-breasted  Chat 
Odors  of  Vegetation 
The  Sound  of  Summer 
The  Ploughing 

H    Landscape: 

Cape  Cod     . 

The  Upper  Mississippi 

In  the  Sahel 

A  Pine  Forest 

A  Grove  of  Sequoias    . 

The  Spirit  of  the  Garden 

The  Scenery  of  the  I^kes 

C.   Cities: 

Valparaiso 

«,.  An  Indian  Village 

In  Front  of  the  Royal  Exchange 

/J.   Buildings: 

English  Cottages 
The  Keeper's  House   . 
Exposition  Hall  and  Bridge  Shop 
Second-story     Bungalow     Apart 

ments    .... 
The  Doctor's  Home 
Landor's  Cottage 
The  Ancient  Palar.-  nf  leypore 
St  Mark's     . 

£.    ANtMAL.S: 

■^  The  Walrus  .... 
Kusa-Hibari 
The  Hen  Hawk    . 
A  Trout        .... 


TAGB 

iMfcadio  Ileam 

340 

Lafcadio  J/eum 

341 

John  Kuskin  . 

342 

John  Burro  11  ghs 

344 

Wilson  Flagg 

345 

Rich  a  rd  Jeff  erics 

347 

Frank  Xorris 

348 

I/eiin'  David  Thoreau    . 

352 

Francis  Parkman   . 

352 

George  Edward  IVoodherry 

354 

Steioart  Edward  White  . 

357 

Stavart  Ed-ward  White  . 

358 

L.  If.  Bailey  . 

360 

William  Wordsworth 

361 

James  Bryce   . 

366 

Francis  Parkman   . 

368 

Kichard  Jefferies 

369 

John  Rtiskin  . 

372 

Thomas  Hardy 

373 

"  Engineering  Record  "  . 

375 

"  Popular  Mechanics  "    . 

376 

/'"  Ilopkinson  Smith 

377 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 

379 

Rudyard  Kipling  . 

381 

John  Ruskin  . 

383 

C.  Lloyd  Morgan    . 

393 

Lajcadio  //earn 

394 

John  Burroughs 

396 

Richard  Jefferies 

397 

G. 


CONTENTS 

XI 

Persons : 

I.   Real 

PAGE 

Sir  Richard  Grenville  . 

Charles  Kingsley    . 

399 

Francis  Drake 

Charles  Kingsley    . 

400 

John  Sterling 

Thomas  Carlyle 

400 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley  . 

.         .     T.J.Hogg      .         .         . 

401 

Father  Prout         .    '     . 

.      William  Bates  - 

402 

Edward  the  First 

.    John  Richard  Green 
2.    Lnaginary 

403 

An  Accountant     . 

Charles  Lamb 

405 

A  Portrait     . 

.    John  Galsworthy    . 

407 

Charles  Cheeryble 

Charles  Dickens 

408 

Harold  Skimpole 

Charles  Dickens 

409 

Mr.  George  . 

Charles  Dickens 

410 

Aunt  Clara  . 

.     Arnold  Bennett 

410 

Bud  Tilden  . 

.     F.  Hop  kin  son  Smith 

412 

A  Group  of  Mourners  . 

.     Sir  Walter  Scott      . 

415 

Mental  States  : 

In  the  Hurricane 

.    Joseph  Conrad 

418 

On  the  Wind  at  Night 

.     Stezvart  Edward  White   . 

420 

IV.    NARRATIVE 


A.    Anecdote  : 
Irish  Patriots 


Henty  Labonchire 


B.  Incident: 

The  Tragedy  of  the  Mine    .         .    Joseph  Husband     . 
An  Elephant  Hunt        .         .         .      Theodore  Roosevelt. 

C.  Biography  and  Autobiography: 


Jeanne  D'Arc 
Going  into  Business 

D.   Historical  Narrative: 
The  Death  of  Queen  Mary 
The  Capture  of  Quebec 
The  Beggars'  League  . 


John  Richard  Green 
Jacob  A.  Riis  . 


423 


.  424 
.  430 


437 
442 


Thomas  Babington  Macanlay    457 
Francis  Parkman  .  .     461 

John  Lathrop  Motley       .         .     470 


Xii  COXTl.STS 

£.   Elements  ok  Story-writint.  : 

/.    hhident 

PACE 

Jennie  at  the  Pump  George  liomnv        .  476 

Denry  at  the  Dance  .     AntolJ  Bennett      .  477 

The  Pursuit  of  the  Outlaw  .  Frank  Norris  .     486 

2.    Description 
Nature  Speaks      ....     George  Meredith  498 

F.   Short  Stories: 

The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door  Robert  Louis  Ste-iensou  .         .  502 

A  Gala  Dress        ....  Mar}>  Wilkins  Freeman  523 

Mammon  and  the  Archer     .  O.  Henry       ....  536 


V.    LETTERS 

Dean  Swift  to  Stella 543 

Samuel  Johnson  to  I^rd  Chesterfield  .......  544 

Charles  Lamb  to  William  Wordsworth 545 

Charles  Darwin  to  W.  D.  Fox 545 

Abraham  Lincoln  to  Mrs.  Bixby 548 

James  Russell  Lowell  to  Charles  Eliot  Norton 549 

R.  L  S.  to  W.  E.  Henley 551 


APPENDIX    I.     STUDENT    THEMES 
Exposition  : 

The  Manufacture  of  .Malleable  Iron  (with  outline)        .         .         .  553 

How  a  Rosebud  Uncloses 557 

Strawberrj'  Picking  557 

The  College  Girl's  Vocabulary 559 

Fuzzy :  The  Idea  Man  .........  560 

The  College  Springtime  :  A  "  Now"  (Imitated  from  I^igh  Hunt)  563 

The  Fear  of  Pew 565 

Use  of  Dialogue  in  "The  Young  Man  with  the  Cream  Tarts"    .  566 

John  Masefield 567 

Mr.  Roosevelt  in  Palestine 571 

Our  Military  Unpreparedness .  572 


CONTENTS  Xlll 

PAGE 

The  Underwood  Tariff  Bill 573 

Of  the  Importance  Attached  to  Athletic  Sports  ....  573 

II.  Argument: 

Brief  on  the  Hetch-Hetchy  Question    ......  574 

The  Value  of  Intercollegiate  Debating          .....  584 

III.  Description  : 

Pittsburgh  by  Night 588 

The  Song  of  the  Vacuum-cleaner 588 

The  Desert 589 

Summer          ...........  589 

In  a  Church 590 

Mademoiselle  Fifi 590 

My  Grandfather .         .         .591 

Anger 593 

IV.  Narrative: 

Tony 593 

The  Fireman 594 

The  Blood  Tie .599 


APPENDIX   II 

Exposition  and  Argument  (classified  as  to  topics)         .        .        .  607 

Description  (classified  as  to  technical  elements)       ....  609 

NOTES 611 


COLLEGE  READINGS   IN 
ENGLISH    PROSE 


I.    A.    DEFINITIONS 
SLANG  1 

Henry  Bradley 

Although  the  term  "slang"  is  sometimes  used  with  more  or 
less  intentional  inexactness,  and  has  often  been  carelessly  defined, 
the  notion  to  which  it  corresponds  in  general  use  seems  to 
be  tolerably  precise.  There  are  two  principal  characteristics 
which,  taken  in  conjunction,  may  serve  to  distinguish  what  is 
properly  called  slang  from  certain  other  varieties  of  diction  that 
in  some  respects  resemble  it.  The  first  of  these  is  that  slang  is 
a  conscious  offence  against  some  conventional  standard  of  pro- 
priety. A  mere  vulgarism  is  not  slang,  except  when  it  is  pur- 
posely adopted,  and  acquires  an  artificial  currency,  among  some 
class  of  persons  to  whom  it  is  not  native.  The  other  distinctive 
feature  of  slang  is  that  it  is  neither  a  part  of  the  ordinary  lan- 
guage, nor  an  attempt  to  supply  its  deficiencies.  The  slang 
word  is  a  deliberate  substitute  for  a  word  of  the  vernacular, 
just  as  the  characters  of  a  cipher  are  substitutes  for  the  letters 
of  the  alphabet,  or  as  a  nickname  is  a  substitute  for  a  personal 
name.  The  latter  comparison  is  the  more  exact  of  the  two ; 
indeed,  nicknames,  as  a  general  rule,  maybe  accurately  described 
as  a  kind  of  slang.  A  slang  expression,  like  a  nickname,  may 
be  used  for  the  purpose  of  concealing  the  meaning  from  unin- 

'  From  Encyclopadia  BrUaiinica  (nth  ed.),  article  on  "  Slang."'  Reprinted 
by  permission. 

B  I 


2  DKIIMTIOXS 

iliali'tl  lu-ariTS,  or  it  may  bo  cnipluyt-cl  sportively  ()r  out  of  aver- 
sion to  dij^nity  or  formality  of  speech.  The  essential  point 
is  tliat  it  does  not,  like  the  words  of  ordinary  lanj^uage,  oriji;inate 
in  the  desire  to  be  understood.  The  slang  word  is  not  invented 
or  used  because  it  is  in  any  respect  better  than  the  accej)ted 
term,  but  because  it  is  different.  No  doubt  it  may  accidentally 
hajipen  that  a  word  which  originates  as  slang  is  superior  in 
expressiveness  to  its  regular  synonym  (much  as  a  nickname  may 
identify  a  person  better  than  his  name  does),  or  that  in  time  it 
develops  a  shade  of  meaning  which  the  ordinary  language 
cannot  convey.  But  when  such  a  word  comes  to  be  used  mainly 
on  account  of  its  intrinsic  merit,  and  not  because  it  is  a  wrong 
word,  it  is  already  ceasing  to  be  slang.  So  long  as  the  usage  of 
good  society  continues  to  proscribe  it,  it  may  be  called  a  vul- 
garism ;  but  unless  the  need  which  it  serves  is  supplied  in  some 
other  way,  it  is  likely  to  find  its  way  into  the  standard  speech. 


WHAT  IS  THOUGHT?! 
John  Dewey 

No  words  are  oftener  on  our  lips  than  thinking  and  thought. 
So  profuse  and  varied,  indeed,  is  our  use  of  these  words  that  it 
is  not  easy  to  define  just  what  we  mean  by  them.  The  aim  of 
this  chapter  is  to  find  a  single  consistent  meaning.  Assistance 
may  be  had  by  considering  some  typical  ways  in  which  the  terms 
are  employed.  In  the  first  place  thought  is  used  broadly,  not 
to  say  loosely.  Everything  that  comes  to  mind,  that  "goes 
through  our  heads,"  is  called  a  thought.  To  think  of  a  thing  is 
just  to  be  conscious  of  it  in  any  way  whatsoever.  Second, 
the  term  is  restricted  by  excluding  whatever  is  directly  pre- 
sented ;  wc  think  Cor  think  of)  only  such  things  as  we  do  not 
directly  see,  hear,  smell,  or  taste.  Then,  third,  the  meaning 
is  further  limited  to  beliefs  that  rest  upon  some  kind  of  evidence 

'  From  Ucw  Wc  Think.  D.  C.  Heath  &  Company,  igio.  Reprinted  by 
peiQUioion. 


WHAT  IS   THOUGHT?  3 

or  testimony.  Of  this  third  type,  two  kinds  —  or,  rather,  two 
degrees  —  must  be  discriminated.  In  some  cases,  a  belief  is 
accepted  with  slight  or  almost  no  attempt  to  state  the  grounds 
that  support  it.  In  other  case?,  the  ground  or  basis  for  a  belief 
is  deliberately  sought  and  its  adequacy  to  support  the  belief 
examined.  This  process  is  called  reflective  thought ;  it  alone  is 
truly  educative  in  value,  and  it  forms,  accordingly,  the  principal 
subject  of  this  volume.  We  shall  now  briefly  describe  each  of 
the  four  senses. 

I.  In  its  loosest  sense,  thinking  signifies  everything  that, 
as  we  say,  is  "in  our  heads"  or  that  "goes  through  our  minds." 
He  who  offers  "a  penny  for  your  thoughts"  does  not  expect  to 
drive  any  great  bargain.  In  calling  the  object  of  his  demand 
thoughts,  he  does  not  intend  to  ascribe  to  them  dignity,  con- 
secutiveness,  or  truth.  Any  idle  fancy,  trivial  recollection,  or 
flitting  impression  will  satisfy  his  demand.  Daydreaming, 
building  of  castles  in  the  air,  that  loose  flux  of  casual  and  dis- 
connected material  that  floats  through  our  minds  in  relaxed 
moments  are,  in  this  random  sense,  thinking.  More  of  our  wak- 
ing life  than  we  should  care  to  admit,  even  to  ourselves,  is  likely 
to  be  whiled  away  in  this  inconsequential  trifling  with  idle 
fancy  and  unsubstantial  hope. 

In  this  sense,  silly  folk  and  dullards  think.  The  story  is 
told  of  a  man  in  slight  repute  for  intelligence,  who,  desiring  to 
be  chosen  selectman  in  his  New  England  town,  addressed  a  knot 
of  neighbors  in  this  wise:  "I  hear  you  don't  believe  I  know 
enough  to  hold  office.  I  wish  you  to  understand  that  I  am  think- 
ing about  something  or  other  most  of  the  time."  Now  reflective 
thought  is  like  this  random  coursing  of  things  through  the  mind 
in  that  it  consists  of  a  succession  of  things  thought  of ;  but  it  is 
unlike,  in  that  the  mere  chance  occurrence  of  any  chance  "some- 
thing or  other  "  in  an  irregular  sequence  does  not  suffice.  Reflec- 
tion involves  not  simply  a  sequence  of  ideas,  but  a  consequence 
—  a  consecutive  ordering  in  such  a  way  that  each  determines  the 
next  as  its  proper  outcome,  while  each  in  turn  leans  back  on  its 
predecessors.  The  successive  portions  of  the  reflective  thought 
grow  out  of  one  another  and  support  one  another ;   they  do  not 


4  DEFIMlJOys 

come  and  )io  in  a  nuilky.  Each  phase  is  a  stcj)  from  some- 
thing U)  something  —  technically  speaking,  it  is  a  term  of 
thought.  Each  term  leaves  a  deposit  which  is  utilized  in  the 
next  term.  The  stream  or  llow  becomes  a  train,  chain,  or 
thread. 

II.  Even  when  thinking  is  used  in  a  broad  sense,  it  is  usually 
restricted  to  matters  not  directly  perceived :  to  what  we  do 
not  see,  smell,  hear,  or  touch.  We  ask  the  man  telling  a  story 
if  he  saw  a  certain  incident  happen,  and  his  reply  may  be,  "No, 
I  only  thought  of  it."  A  note  of  invention,  as  distinct  from 
faithful  record  of  observation,  is  present.  Most  important  in 
tiiis  class  are  successions  of  imaginative  incidents  and  episodes 
which,  haWng  a  certain  coherence,  hanging  together  on  a  con- 
tinuous thread,  lie  between  kaleidoscopic  flights  of  fancy  and 
considerations  deliberately  employed  to  establish  a  conclusion. 
The  imaginative  stories  poured  forth  by  children  possess  all 
degrees  of  internal  congruity;  some  are  disjointed,  some  are 
articulated.  When  connected,  they  simulate  reflective  thought ; 
indeed,  they  usually  occur  in  minds  of  logical  capacity.  These 
imaginative  enterprises  often  precede  thinking  of  the  close-knit 
t\pe  and  prepare  the  way  for  it.  But  they  do  not  aim  at  knowl- 
edge, at  belief  about  facts  or  in  truths;  and  thereby  they  are 
marked  oflf  from  reflective  thought  even  when  they  most  re- 
semble it.  Those  who  express  such  thoughts  do  not  expect 
credence,  but  rather  credit  for  a  well-constructed  plot  or  a  well- 
arranged  climax.  They  produce  good  stories,  not  —  unless  by 
chance  —  knowledge.  Such  thoughts  are  an  efilorescence  of 
feeling;  the  enhancement  of  a  mood  or  sentiment  is  their  aim; 
congruity  of  emotion,  their  binding  tie. 

III.  In  its  next  sense,  thought  denotes  belief  resting  upon 
some  basis ;  that  is,  real  or  supposed  knowledge  going  beyond 
what  is  directly  present.  It  is  marked  by  acceptance  or  rejection 
of  something  as  reasonably  probable  or  improbable.  This  phase 
of  thought,  however,  includes  two  such  distinct  types  of  belief 
that,  even  though  their  difference  is  strictly  one  of  degree,  not 
of  kind,  it  becomes  practically  important  to  consider  them 
separately.     Some  beliefs  are  accepted  when  their  grounds  have 


WHAT  IS   THOUGHT?  5 

not  themselves  been  considered,  others  are  accepted  because 
their  grounds  have  been  examined. 

When  we  say,  "Men  used  to  think  the  world  was  flat,"  or 
"I  thought  you  went  to  the  house,"  we  express  belief :  something 
is  accepted,  held  to,  acquiesced  in,  or  affirmed.  But  such 
thoughts  may  mean  a  supposition  accepted  without  reference 
to  its  real  grounds.  These  may  be  adequate,  they  may  not; 
but  their  value  with  reference  to  the  support  they  afford  the 
belief  has  not  been  considered. 

Such  thoughts  grow  up  unconsciously  and  without  reference 
to  the  attainment  of  correct  belief.  They  are  picked  up  —  we 
know  not  how.  From  obscure  sources  and  by  unnoticed  chan- 
nels they  insinuate  themselves  into  acceptance  and  become  un- 
consciously a  part  of  our  mental  furniture.  Tradition,  instruc- 
tion, imitation  —  all  of  which  depend  upon  authority  in  some 
form,  or  appeal  to  our  own  advantage,  or  fall  in  with  a  strong 
passion  —  are  responsible  for  them.  Such  thoughts  are  preju- 
dices, that  is,  prejudgments,  not  judgments  proper  that  rest 
upon  a  survey  of  evidence. 

IV.  Thoughts  that  result  in  belief  have  an  importance 
attached  to  them  which  leads  to  reflective  thought,  to  con- 
scious inquiry  into  the  nature,  conditions,  and  bearings  of  the 
belief.  To  think  of  whales  and  camels  in  the  clouds  is  to  enter- 
tain ourselves  with  fancies,  terminable  at  our  pleasure,  which 
do  not  lead  to  any  belief  in  particular.  But  to  think  of  the 
world  as  flat  is  to  ascribe  a  quality  to  a  real  thing  as  its  real 
property.  This  conclusion  denotes  a  connection  among  things 
and  hence  is  not,  like  imaginative  thought,  plastic  to  our  mood. 
Belief  in  the  world's  flatness  commits  him  who  holds  it  to  think- 
ing in  certain  specific  ways  of  other  objects,  such  as  the  heavenly 
bodies,  antipodes,  the  possibility  of  navigation.  It  prescribes 
to  him  actions  in  accordance  with  his  conception  of  these  objects. 

The  consequences  of  a  belief  upon  other  beliefs  and  upon 
behavior  may  be  so  important,  then,  that  men  are  forced  to 
consider  the  grounds  or  reasons  of  their  belief  and  its  logical 
consequences.  This  means  reflective  thought  —  thought  in  its 
eulogistic  and  emphatic  sense. 


6  Dr.Fr\'iTfn\\<i 

Men  thought  the  worltl  was  llal  uiuil  C()luml)u.s  Ihoui^hl  it  to 
be  round.  The  earlier  thought  was  a  belief  held  because  nun 
had  not  the  energy  or  the  oourajije  to  ([uestion  what  those  al)out 
them  accept-  .  and  tauglit,  especially  as  it  was  supj^estcd  and 
seemingly  confirmed  by  obvious  and  sensii)le  facts.  The  thought 
of  Columbus  was  a  rcasomd  conclusion.  It  marked  the  close  of 
study  into  facts,  of  scrutiny  and  revision  of  evidence,  of  working 
out  the  implications  of  various  hypotheses,  and  of  comparing 
these  theoretical  results  with  one  another  and  with  known  facts. 
Because  Columbus  did  not  accept  unhesitatingly  the  current 
traditional  theory,  because  he  doubted  and  inquired,  he  arrived 
at  his  thought.  Skeptical  of  what,  from  long  habit,  seemed  most 
certain,  and  credulous  of  what  seemed  impossible,  he  went  on 
thinking  until  he  could  produce  evidence  for  both  his  confidence 
and  his  disbelief.  Even  if  his  conclusion  had  finally  turned  out 
wrong,  it  would  have  been  a  diflerent  sort  of  belief  from  those  it 
antagonized,  because  it  was  reached  by  a  different  method. 
Active,  persistent,  and  careful  consideration  of  any  belief  or  sup- 
posed form  of  knowledge  in  the  light  of  the  grounds  that  support  it, 
and  the  further  conclusions  to  which  it  tends,  constitutes  reflective 
thought.  Any  one  of  the  first  three  kinds  of  thought  may 
elicit  this  tvpe ;  but  once  begun,  it  is  a  conscious  and  voluntary 
effort  to  establish  belief  upon  a  firm  basis  of  reasons. 


SOCI.\LLSM:  ITS  DEFIXITIOX  AND  DIFFERENTIA- 
TION' FROM  OTHER  SCHEMES  OF  SOCIAL  BET- 
TERMENT' 

Ira  B.  Cross 

It  is  difficult  accurately  to  define  or  to  use  the  word  "social- 
ism," because,  as  ordinarily  used,  it  may  refer,  and  that  cor- 
rectly, to  three  distinct  things :  (i)  to  a  certain  set  of  principles 
or  theories;  (2)  to  a  movement,  usually  a  political  party, 
whose  members  advocate  those  theories  and  are  eager  to  attain 

'  From  Essentials  of  Socialism.  The  Macmillan  Company,  1912.  Reprinted  by 
permission. 


SOCIALISM  ij 

the  goal  which  the  latter  represent ;  and  (3)  to  the  prophesied 
stage  of  society  (socialism),  the  next  after  capitalism,  which 
the  members  of  the  above  movement  are  striving  to  bring 
about.  Thus  the  stage  of  socialism,  or  the  socialistic  state,  is 
the  goal  of  the  socialist  movement,  a  movement  based  upon  the 
principles  or  theories  of  socialism. 

In  the  ideal  socialist  state,  all  of  those  things  employed  in 
the  production  of  wealth,  which  are  used  in  common,  would 
be  owned  collectively,  while  all  of  those  things  which  the  in- 
dividual uses  directly  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  personal  wants, 
or  which  he  uses  in  his  capacity  as  an  individual,  would  remain 
the  property  of  the  individual.  Thus  factories,  mines,  rail- 
roads, telegraphs,  telephones,  etc.,  —  those  instruments  of  pro- 
duction which  to-day  are  being  used  by  millions  of  people,  and 
upon  which  countless  millions  depend  for  a  livelihood,  would 
be  owned  and  operated  collectively  under  socialism ;  but  a 
carpenter's  tools,  or  a  man's  lawn-mower,  his  clothing,  and 
many  other  things  used  solely  by  him,  would  be  owned  by  him. 
The  situation  would  differ  from  the  present  primarily  in  the  fact 
that  to-day  the  greater  or  more  important  instruments  of  pro- 
duction are  owned  by  individuals  called  capitalists,  who  hire 
thousands  of  men  to  work  for  them,  and  who  manage  industry 
with  an  eye  only  to  their  individual  profit,  while  under  socialism 
the  industries  would  be  owned  collectively  by  the  workers 
through  the  medium  of  the  government,  and  would  be  managed 
by  them  by  means  of  the  initiative,  the  referendum,  and  the 
recall,^  with  the  interests  of  the  public  always  in  mind.  Thus, 
under  socialism,  there  would  be  no  capitalist  class,  because 
there  would  be  no  private  ownership  of  the  greater  means  of 
production.  Socialism,  however,  would  not  abolish  capital,  for 
there  would  still  remain  as  great  a  need  for  its  use  in  the  pro- 

'  At  present  the  socialists  of  the  United  States  use  the  initiative,  the  referendum, 
and  the  recall  in  conducting  the  affairs  of  their  political  party,  the  idea  being  always 
to  keep  control  of  the  organization  in  the  hands  of  its  dues-paying  members. 
Strange  to  say,  however,  these  staunch  advocates  of  Democracy  arc  bitterly  opposed 
to  the  adoption  of  the  direct  i^rimary,  the  reason  being  that  they  fear  that  some 
other  political  party,  by  means  of  it,  might  succeed  in  capturing  the  socialist  organ- 
ization as  soon  as  it  became  strong  enough  to  justify  the  attempt  being  made. 


8  Di.riMJioss 

tluction  of  wealth  as  cxisl.s  lo-iKiy  under  capiUilism.  Tlic  only 
change  that  would  occur  in  this  connection  is  that  capital 
would  be  collectixeK',  instead  of  privately,  owned. 

Socialism  is  not  govcrnmcnl  ownership,  althouj^h  Ijy  many 
IHxiple,  and  strange  to  say  even  by  some  so-called  socialists, 
they  are  considered  as  being  identical. 

The  socialists  declare  that  government  ownership  is  a  reform 
which  merely  substitutes  the  government,  controlled  by  the 
capitalists,  for  the  capitalist  as  an  employer  of  labor.  It  brings 
about  only  a  change  of  taskmasters,  and  in  many  respects  a 
most  unsatisfactory  change,  for  under  government  ownership 
the  workers  have  less  control  over  wages,  hours,  and  the  con- 
ditions of  employment  than  under  private  ownership  and  opera- 
lion.  As  a  rule,  governmental  employees  are  not  permitted  to 
form  trade-unions,  nor  can  they  actively  participate  in  politics. 
At  times  of  strikes,  armed  force  can  be  used  more  effectively  to 
compel  them  to  return  to  work.  The  socialists  also  argue  that 
any  great  amount  of  government  ownership  would  seriously 
hinder  the  concentration  of  industry,  and  thereby  prolong  the 
life  of  capitalistic  society  by  doing  away  wnth  many  unfair  dis- 
criminations, thus  enabling  the  small  corporation  to  compete  on 
an  equal  footing  with  the  large  corporation.  It  is  because  of 
these  things  that  they  ordinarily  oppose  government  ownership, 
although  by  some  it  is  advocated  as  a  stepping-stone  to  the 
establishment  of  socialism. 

The  Socialisl  Movement  must  not  be  Confused  with  the  Coopera- 
tive Movement-.  —  They  are  not  the  same,  although  the  principle 
of  cooperation  lies  at  the  very  root  of  the  socialist  teachings. 
Socialists  have  consistently  opposed  the  policy  of  laissez-faire 
both  in  theory  and  practice,  and  declare  against  all  industrial 
competition.  They  do  not,  however,  seek  to  abolish  com- 
petition in  any  field  other  than  the  industrial,  because  they  feel 
that  under  proper  conditions  competition  tends  to  develop  the 
best  that  lies  within  the  individual. 

The  proposed  socialist  state  is  known  by  many  as  the  "Co- 
operative Commonwealth,"  because  in  such  a  stage  of  society 
the  principles  of  cooperation  would  be  carried  out  to  the  fullest 


SOCTALISM  •  9 

extent.  Nevertheless,  there  are  many  regards  in  which  these 
two  movements  differ  from  each  other.  Cooperation,  or  the 
appUcation  of  cooperative  principles,  has  been  tried  many 
times  in  the  past.  Socialism  has  never  been  tried,  although 
communistic  and  cooperative  colonies  and  certain  social  experi- 
ments have  been  frequently  and  incorrectly  referred  to  by  the 
opponents  of  socialism  as  evidences  of  its  failure  and  imprac- 
ticability. Cooperation  does  not  represent  a  stage  in  the  evo- 
lution of  society  ;  socialists  claim  that  socialism  does.  Coopera- 
tion is  a  social  reform  measure,  and  can  and  does  exist  side  by 
side  with  capitalism.  Socialism  is  not  a  reform  measure  and 
cannot  exist  under  capitalism.  Cooperation  is  the  voluntary 
association  of  interested  individuals  for  the  purpose  of  carrying 
out  some  definite  object,  such  as  the  establishment  and  opera- 
tion of  cooperative  stores,  factories,  mines,  and  similar  enter- 
prises. Socialism  is  not  a  voluntary  association  of  a  small 
number  of  individuals.  Under  it  all  society  would  be  organized 
upon  a  cooperative  basis,  the  cooperation  being  compulsory 
rather  than  voluntary. 

Socialism  is  not  Profit-sharing.  —  In  a  profit-sharing  estab- 
lishment, the  workers  have  no  direct  control  over  the  industry 
in  which  they  are  employed.  They  labor  for  a  capitalist  or  a 
group  of  capitalists  and  receive  at  the  end  of  the  year,  in  addition 
to  wages,  a  portion  of  the  profits  of  the  business.  Like  co- 
operation, profit-sharing  is  a  social  reform  measure  which  has 
been  tried  and  which  is  in  no  way  opposed  to  the  existence  or 
the  continuance  of  capitalism.  Under  sociahsm,  there  would  be 
no  capitalist  class ;  the  workers  would  control  the  industries  of 
the  nation  and  would  work  entirely  for  themselves,  or  for  what 
would  then  be  the  same  thing,  society. 

Socialism  is  not  Anarchism.  — Although  radically  opposed  to 
each  other,  these  two  ideals  of  the  future  state  of  society  have 
been  and  still  are  constantly  confounded  with  each  other. 
This  is  to  be  explained  on  the  following  grounds :  — 

(a)  Both  are  based  upon  radical  principles. 
•    (b)  The  destructive  arguments  of  both  follow  the  same  lines 
of  thought. 


XO  DEll.MTlOyS 

In  tlu'  i-arl\'  (l;i\s  omununistic  colonics  or  rxpcnmenti: 
wtTi"  proposiil  and  also  cstabli^lu-d   l)y  both  socialists 
and  anarchists. 
(d)  It  has  not  been  more  than  two  or  three  decades  since 
these  two  ideals  became  distinct  in  the  minds  of  their 
followers.     As  late  as  the  middle  'So's,  men  who  were 
anarchists  thou^rht  and  called  themselves  socialists. 
A  belief  in  anarchism  is  based  upon  the  doctrine  of  Indi- 
vidualism carried  to  its  logical  conclusion.     Anarchism  places 
the  rights  and  interests  of  the  individual  above  those  of  society 
and  leads  finally  to  the  ideal  of  no  government.     Socialism,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  collectivism.     From  its  point  of  \iew  the 
rights  and   interests  of  society  are  paramount  and  must  be 
conserved  under  all  circumstances.     Socialism  proposes  an  ideal 
state  in  which  the  collectivity,  acting  through  the  government, 
carries  on  the  production  and  exchange  of  wealth,  as  well  as  the 
greatest  possible  number  of  other  activities  consistent  with  the 
welfare  of  the  people.     In  brief,  from  the  standpoint  of  the 
socialists  the  government  is  to  be  all  in  all,  while  from  that  of 
the  anarchists  it  is  to  be  non-existent ;    the  individual  is  to  do 
everything. 

The  two  ideals  also  differ  on  the  subject  of  religion  and  the 
family  relation.  Anarchism,  denying  all  authority,  divine  as 
well  as  temporal,  leads  logically  to  an  acceptance  of  the  idea  of 
free  love  and  to  a  denial  of  the  authority  of  the  Church.  It 
claims  that  the  individual  is  above  the  State  and  the  Church, 
and  that  consequently  he  should  not  be  forced  to  obe}'  the 
mandates  of  either.  Socialism,  on  the  other  hand,  is  not  op- 
posed to  religion,  although  there  are  some  socialists,  as  there 
are  some  Democrats  and  some  Republicans,  who  are  infidels  or 
even  atheists.  Socialist  congresses  and  party  declarations  have 
steadfastly  maintained  that  religion  is  a  matter  with  which  the 
socialist  party  does  not  concern  itself.  It  is  a  question  that 
should  be  .settled  solely  by  the  individual.  The  prevalent  con- 
viction that  sociali-sm  is  atheistic  is  due,  no  doubt,  to  the  fact 
that  a  large  number  of  socialists  oppose,  not  religion,  but  the 
activity  of  the  Church  in  behalf  of  the  interests  of  the  capitalist 


SOCIALISM  II 

class  and  in  opposition  to  economic  and  political  reforms.  Nor 
is  socialism  opposed  to  the  home  and  the  monogamous  family, 
although  a  few  radical  and  eccentric  socialists  have  expressed 
ideas  to  the  contrary.  The  socialists  hold  that  the  home  is 
being  broken  up  because  of  the  industrial  and  social  conditions 
which  prevail  under  capitalism.  The  employment  of  women 
and  children  in  factories  and  stores,  the  low  wages  and  long 
hours,  the  highly  unsatisfactory  housing  conditions  of  the  work- 
ing class,  the  "he"  towns  of  the  West  and  the  "she"  towns  of 
the  East,  all  make  for  the  breaking  up  of  the  home.  The 
socialists  argue  that  only  under  socialism  would  it  be  possible 
to  have  more  and  better  homes  and  consequently  a  better  family 
relation.  Higher  wages,  a  shorter  work  day,  steady  employ- 
ment, the  elimination  of  profits  from  the  industrial  world,  all  of 
which  they  claim  would  come  with  socialism,  would  aid  greatly 
in  developing  a  higher  and  more  ideal  home  life  for  the  people. 

There  are  two  general  groups  of  anarchists  :  (i)  the  Indi- 
vidualist or  Philosophical  Anarchists,  and  (2)  the  Anarchist 
Communists.  Briefly,  the  former  believe  in  the  peaceful 
propagation  of  anarchistic  doctrines,  and  maintain  that  a  stage 
of  anarchism  will  come  as  the  result  of  the  gradual  extension  of 
the  laissez-faire  policy  on  the  part  of  the  government.  The 
latter  advocate  the  use  of  violent  and  revolutionary  measures 
as  a  means  of  bringing  about  the  desired  ideal. 

Nihilism  is  often  confused  with  both  socialism  and  anarchism, 
but  strictly  speaking  it  is  neither.  As  Kirkup  has  pointed  out 
{History  of  Socialism,  pp.  257-258),  the  name  of  nihihsm  "is 
often  erroneously  applied  to  the  whole  revolutionary  movement" 
in  Russia,  although  it  should  properly  be  restricted  to  the 
agitations  of  the  period  1S55-1870.  The  nihilists  bowed  before 
no  authority  of  any  kind,  and  accepted  no  principle  on  faith. 
"They  weighed  political  institutions  and  social  reforms,  religion 
and  the  family,  in  the  balances  of  that  negative  criticism, 
which  was  their  prevailing  characteristic,  and  they  found  them 
all  wanting.  With  revolutionary  impatience  they  rejected 
everything  that  had  come  down  from  the  past,  good  and  bad 
alike.     They  had  no  respect  for  art  or  poetry,  sentiment  or  ro- 


12  DKI'IMllOXS 

manco."      Tlu-y  were  inliri-sk-d  in  tlu'  matters  of  ''daily  bread 
for  all"  anil  an  elementary  etlucalion  ft)r  the  common  people. 

Socialism  is  not  Coniniunism.  -  VmWr  socialism,  although 
there  would  be  collective  ownership  of  the  means  of  production 
and  exchange,  there  would  still  be  private  ownership  of  income. 
Communism,  however,  goes  one  step  further  and  proposes 
common  ownership  of  income.  It  usually  advocates  equality  in 
the  ilivision  of  the  products  of  society.  Socialism,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  opposed  to  any  and  all  schemes  of  "dividing  up." 
Communism  also  difters  from  socialism  in  that  those  who 
believe  in  it  do  not  accept  the  doctrines  of  the  evolutionary 
development  of  society  or  of  the  necessity  of  appealing  primarily 
to  the  working  class  in  order  to  bring  about  the  adoption  of 
communistic  ideas. 

Communism  usually  takes  the  form  of  colony  or  community 
experiments,  and  is  most  frequently  known  as  Utopian  Social- 
ism. In  the  United  States  it  is  represented  by  a  long  line  of 
unsuccessful  attempts  to  introduce  the  colony  mode  of  life,  and 
reached  its  point  of  greatest  popularity  in  the  Bellamy  or 
Nationalist  movement  during  the  later  '8o's  and  early  '90's. 

Socialism  is  not  Social  Reform.  —  The  present  day  sees  a 
widespread  interest  in  social  reform  measures  in  all  countries. 
Social  reform  contains  the  dominant  features  of  capitalism,  i.e. 
the  private  ownership  of  industry  and  the  two  economically 
antagonistic  classes,  the  workers  and  the  capitalists.  It  seeks 
to  remove  only  the  more  flagrant  evils  of  capitalism.  Its  advo- 
cates propose  such  remedial  measures  as  labor  and  factory  legis- 
lation, municipal  and  political  reforms,  and  an  extension  of  the 
functions  and  powers  of  the  government.  Socialism,  on  the 
other  hand,  would  supplant  capitalism  by  a  state  of  society  in 
which  there  would  be  a  democratically  organized  collective 
ownership  and  operation  of  the  means  of  production  and  ex- 
change. It  proposes  a  complete  and  radical  change  from  our 
present  system,  but  only  by  peaceful  means. 

For  a  number  of  years  social  reform  measures  were  vigorously 
opposed  by  socialists,  but  of  late  there  has  been  considerable 
discussion  regarding  the  necessity  or  advisability  of  using  such 


SOCIALISM  13 

"halfway"  means  as  a  method  of  gradually  bringing  about  the 
socialist  state.  But  even  though  some  of  the  socialists,  possibly 
a  majority,  take  this  position,  they  differ  from  the  social  re- 
formers in  that  they  consider  such  measures  only  as  a  means 
to  an  end,  the  end  being  socialism,  while  the  reformers  look 
upon  these  measures  as  an  end  in  themselves  and  feel  that  their 
adoption  would  result  in  the  improvement  and  retention  of  the 
present  system  of  capitalistic  industry  through  the  removal  of 
its  more  glaring  evils. 

Socialism  is  not  the  Single  Tax.  —  The  advocates  of  the  single 
tax  propose  to  abolish  all  taxes  save  one,  a  single  tax  levied 
upon  the  value  of  land  exclusive  of  improvements.  It  is 
claimed  that  such  a  tax  would  be  just  and  expedient ;  that  it 
would  greatly  increase  production  by  exempting  improvements 
from  taxation ;  that  it  would  abolish  speculation  in  land  ;  that 
it  would  be  simple  and  easy  of  administration ;  and  that  it 
would  materially  assist  by  bringing  about  a  more  equitable  dis- 
tribution of  wealth.  The  single  taxers  accept  the  doctrine  of 
laissez-Jaire,  and  consequently  believe  in  Individualism,  Com- 
petition, and  Free  Trade. 

It  is  argued  by  the  opponents  of  the  tax  that  it  would  be 
difficult  to  administer;  that  it  would  not  supply  a  sufficient 
revenue  for  the  government ;  that  it  would  be  unjust  because 
it  would  tax  only  the  landowners ;  that  it  would  tend  to  weaken 
the  idea  of  private  ownership  of  land ;  and  that  it  would  lead 
ultimately  to  the  government  ownership  of  land  with  private 
use  or  cultivation. 

Contrasting  the  single  tax  with  socialism,  it  is  to  be  noted 
that  the  advocates  of  the  former  recognize  only  one  form  of 
exploitation,  rent,  and  but  one  oppressor,  the  landlord,  both  of 
which  they  would  abolish.  Socialists,  on  the  other  hand,  argue 
that  profits  and  interest,  as  well  as  rent,  are  forms  of  exploita- 
tion and  can  be  gotten  rid  of  only  by  abolishing  the  private 
ownership  of  industry.  Thus,  logically,  the  socialists  should 
believe  in  the  nationalization  of  land,  and  some  of  them  do ;  but 
it  is  in  connection  with  this  question  of  what  to  do  with  the  land 
that  the  ideas  of  the  socialists  are  most  indefinite,  diverse,  and 


14  DEFixrrioxs 

imjKissiblc  of  classification.  The  single  taxcrs  would  retain  the 
dominant  features  of  capitalism  with  its  economic  classes,  with 
competition  between  the  industrial  units,  and  with  private 
ownership  of  industry  and  the  consequent  exi)loitation  of  the 
workers,  all  of  which  the  socialists  seek  to  abolish.  The  single 
ta.xers  also  dilTer  from  the  socialists  in  that  they  do  not  recognize 
the  existence  of  the  class  struggle. 


ON  FAMILIAR   ST\XEi 

William  Hazlitt 

It  is  not  easy  to  write  a  familiar  style.  Many  people  mistake 
a  familiar  for  a  xnilgar  style,  and  suppose  that  to  write  without 
affectation  is  to  write  at  random.  On  the  contrary,  there  is 
nothing  that  requires  more  precision,  and,  if  I  may  so  say, 
purity  of  expression,  than  the  style  I  am  speaking  of.  It  utterly 
rejects  not  only  all  umneaning  pomp,  but  all  low,  cant  phrases, 
and  loose,  unconnected,  slipslwd  allusions.  It  is  not  to  take 
the  first  word  that  otters,  but  the  best  word  in  common  use ; 
it  is  not  to  throw  words  together  in  any  combinations  we  please, 
but  to  follow  and  avail  ourselves  of  the  true  idiom  of  the  lan- 
guage. To  write  a  genuine  familiar  or  truly  English  style,  is 
to  write  as  any  one  would  speak  in  common  conversation  who 
had  a  thorough  command  and  choice  of  words,  or  who  could 
discourse  with  ease,  force,  and  perspicuity,  setting  aside  all 
pedantic  and  oratorical  flourishes.  Or  to  give  another  illustra- 
tion, to  write  naturally  is  the  same  thing  in  regard  to  common 
conversation  as  to  read  naturally  is  in  regard  to  common  speech. 
It  does  not  follow  that  it  is  an  easy  thing  to  give  the  true  accent 
and  inflection  to  the  words  you  utter,  because  you  do  not  attempt 
to  rise  above  the  level  of  ordinary  life  and  colloquial  speaking. 
You  do  not  assume  indeed  the  solemnity  of  the  pulpit,  or  the 
tone  of  stage  declamation :  neither  are  you  at  liberty  to  gabble 
on  at  a  venture,  without  emphasis  or  discretion,  or  to  resort  to 

'  From  Table  Talk. 


ON   FAMILIAR  STYLE  1 5 

vulgar  dialect  or  clownish  pronunciation.  You  must  steer  a 
middle  course.  You  are  tied  down  to  a  given  and  appropriate 
articulation,  which  is  determined  by  the  habitual  associations 
between  sense  and  sound,  and  which  you  can  only  hit  by  enter- 
ing into  the  author's  meaning,  as  you  must  find  the  proper 
words  and  style  to  express  yourself  by  fixing  your  thoughts  on 
the  subject  you  have  to  write  about.  Any  one  may  mouth 
out  a  passage  with  a  theatrical  cadence,  or  get  upon  stilts  to  tell 
his  thoughts :  but  to  write  or  speak  with  propriety  and  sim- 
plicity is  a  more  difficult  task.  Thus  it  is  easy  to  affect  a  pom- 
pous style,  to  use  a  word  twice  as  big  as  the  thing  you  want  to 
express :  it  is  not  so  easy  to  pitch  upon  the  very  word  that 
exactly  fits  it.  Out  of  eight  or  ten  words  equally  common, 
equally  intelligible,  with  nearly  equal  pretensions,  it  is  a  matter 
of  some  nicety  and  discrimination  to  pick  out  the  very  one,  the 
preferableness  of  which  is  scarcely  perceptible,  but  decisive. 
The  reason  why  I  object  to  Dr.  Johnson's  style  is  that  there  is 
no  discrimination,  no  selection,  no  variety  in  it.  He  uses  none 
but  "tall,  opaque  words,"  taken  from  the  "first  row  of  the 
rubric," — words  with  the  greatest  number  of  syllables,  or 
Latin  phrases  with  merely  English  terminations.  If  a  fine  style 
depended  on  this  sort  of  arbitrary  pretension,  it  would  be  fair 
to  judge  of  an  author's  elegance  by  the  measurement  of  his 
words,  and  the  substitution  of  foreign  circumlocutions  (wdth  no 
precise  associations)  for  the  mother  tongue.  How  simple  it  is 
to  be  dignified  without  ease,  to  be  pompous  without  meaning ! 
Surely  it  is  but  a  mechanical  rule  for  avoiding  what  is  low  to 
be  always  pedantic  and  aft'ected.  It  is  clear  you  cannot  use  a 
vulgar  English  word  if  you  never  use  a  common  English  word 
at  all.  A  fine  tact  is  shewn  in  adhering  to  those  which  are 
perfectly  common,  and  yet  never  falling  into  any  expressions 
which  are  debased  by  disgusting  circumstances,  or  which  owe 
their  signification  and  point  to  technical  or  professional  allusions. 
A  truly  natural  or  familiar  style  can  never  be  quaint  or  vulgar 
for  this  reason,  that  it  is  of  universal  force  and  applicability, 
and  that  quaintness  and  vulgarity  arise  out  of  the  immediate 
connection  of  certain  words  with  coarse  and  disagreeable,  or 


l6  DEFIMJfO.XS 

with  confined,  ideas.  The  hist  form  what  we  understand  by 
catU  «)r  .f/a/M,'  phrases.  To  give  an  example  of  what  is  not  very 
clear  in  the  general  statement,  I  should  say  that  the  phrase 
To  cut  with  a  knife,  or  To  cut  a  piece  of  wood,  is  perfectly  free 
from  vulgarity,  because  it  is  perfectly  common :  but  to  cut  an 
acquaintance  is  not  (luitc  unexceptionable,  because  it  is  not  per- 
fectly common  or  intelligible,  and  has  hardly  yet  esca])ed  out 
of  the  limits  of  slang  phraseology.  I  should  hardly  therefore 
use  the  word  in  this  sense  without  putting  it  in  italics  as  a 
licence  of  ex])rcssion,  to  be  received  cum  grano  salis.  All  pro- 
vincial or  by-phrases  come  under  this  same  mark  of  reprobation, 
—  all  such  as  the  writer  transfers  to  the  page  from  his  fireside 
or  a  particular  coterie,  or  that  he  invents  for  his  own  sole  use  and 
convenience.  I  conceive  that  words  are  like  money,  not  the 
worse  for  being  common,  but  that  it  is  the  stamp  of  custom  alone 
that  gives  them  circulation  or  value.  I  am  fastidious  in  this 
respect,  and  would  almost  as  soon  coin  the  currency  of  the 
realm  as  counterfeit  the  King's  EngHsh. 


THE  AIM  OF  A  UNIVERSITY  EDUCATION^ 
John  Henry  Newman 

If  then  a  practical  end  must  be  assigned  to  a  University 
course,  I  say  it  is  that  of  training  good  members  of  society.  Its 
art  is  the  art  of  social  life,  and  its  end  is  fitness  for  the  world. 
It  neither  confines  its  views  to  particular  professions  on  the 
one  hand,  nor  creates  heroes  or  inspires  genius  on  the  other. 
Works  indeed  of  genius  fall  under  no  art;  heroic  minds  come 
under  no  rule;  a  University  is  not  a  birthplace  of  poets  or  of 
immortal  authors,  of  founders  of  schools,  leaders  of  colonies,  or 
conquerors  of  nations.  It  does  not  promise  a  generation  of 
Aristotles  or  Newtons,  of  Napoleons  or  Washingtons,  of  Raphaels 
or  Shakespeares,  though  such  miracles  of  nature  it  has  before 
now  contained  within  its  precincts.     Nor  is  it  content  on  the 

'  From  The  Idea  of  a  University.     Discourse  VII. 


THE  AIM  OF  A    UNIVERSITY  EDUCATION  17 

other  hand  with  forming  the  critic  or  the  experimentalist,  the 
economist  or  the  engineer,  though  such  too  it  includes  within 
its  scope.  But  a  University  training  is  the  great  ordinary  means 
to  a  great  but  ordinary  end ;  it  aims  at  raising  the  intellectual 
tone  of  society,  at  cultivating  the  public  mind,  at  purifying  the 
national  taste,  at  supplying  true  principles  to  popular  enthu- 
siasm and  fixed  aims  to  popular  aspiration,  at  giving  enlargement 
and  sobriety  to  the  ideas  of  the  age,  at  facilitating  the  exercise 
of  political  power,  and  refining  the  intercourse  of  private  life. 
It  is  the  education  which  gives  a  man  a  clear,,  conscious  view 
of  his  own  opinions  and  judgments,  a  truth  in  developing  them, 
an  eloquence  in  expressing  them,  and  a  force  in  urging  them. 
It  teaches  him  to  see  things  as  they  are,  to  go  right  to  the  point, 
to  disentangle  a  skein  of  thought,  to  detect  what  is  sophistical, 
and  to  discard  what  is  irrelevant.  It  prepares  him  to  fill  any 
post  with  credit,  and  to  master  any  subject  with  facility.  It 
shows  him  how  to  accommodate  himself  to  others,  how  to  throw 
himself  into  their  state  of  mind,  how  to  bring  before  them  his 
own,  how  to  influence  them,  how  to  come  to  an  understanding 
with  them,  how  to  bear  with  them.  He  is  at  home  in  any 
society,  he  has  common  ground  with  every  class;  he  knows 
when  to  speak  and  when  to  be  silent;  he  is  able  to  converse, 
he  is  able  to  listen ;  he  can  ask  a  question  pertinently,  and  gain 
a  lesson  seasonably,  when  he  has  nothing  to  impart  himself; 
he  is  ever  ready,  yet  never  in  the  way;  he  is  a  pleasant  com- 
panion, and  a  comrade  you  can  depend  upon ;  he  knows  when 
to  be  serious  and  when  to  trifle,  and  he  has  a  sure  tact  which 
enables  him  to  trifle  with  gracefulness  and  to  be  serious  with 
efl'ect.  He  has  the  repose  of  a  mind  which  lives  in  itself,  while 
it  lives  in  the  world,  and  which  has  resources  for  its  happiness 
at  home  when  it  cannot  go  abroad.  He  has  a  gift  which  serves 
him  in  public,  and  supports  him  in  retirement,  without  which 
good  fortune  is  but  vulgar,  and  with  which  failure  and  disap- 
pointment have  a  charm.  The  art  which  tends  to  make  a  man 
all  this,  is  in  the  object  which  it  pursues  as  useful  as  the  art  of 
wealth  or  the  art  of  health,  though  it  is  less  susceptible  of 
method,  and  less  tangible,  less  certain,  less  complete  in  its  result. 
c 


i.  b.  explanations  of  mechanisms  and 
processp:s 

on  making  camp' 

Stewart  Edward  White 

To  those  who  tread  the  Long  Trail  the  making  of  camp  re- 
solves itself  into  an  algebraical  formula.  After  a  man  has 
travelled  all  day  through  the  Northern  wilderness  he  wants  to 
rest,  and  anything  that  stands  between  himself  and  his  repose 
he  must  get  rid  of  in  as  few  motions  as  is  consistent  with  reason- 
able thoroughness.  The  end  in  view  is  a  hot  meal  and  a  com- 
fortable dry  place  to  sleep.  The  straighter  he  can  draw  the 
line  to  those  two  points  the  happier  he  is. 

Early  in  his  woods  experience  Dick  became  possessed  with 
the  desire  to  do  everything  for  himself.  As  this  was  a  laudable 
striving  for  self-sufficiency,  I  called  a  halt  at  about  three  o'clock 
one  afternoon  in  order  to  give  him  plenty  of  time. 

Now  Dick  is  a  good,  active,  able-bodied  boy,  possessed  of 
average  intelligence  and  rather  more  than  average  zeal.  He 
even  had  theory  of  a  sort,  for  he  had  read  various  Boy  Campers, 
or  the  Trapper's  Guide,  How  to  Camp  Out,  The  Science  of  Wood- 
craft, and  other  able  works.  He  certainly  had  ideas  enough, 
and  confidence  enough.     I  sat  down  on  a  log. 

At  the  end  of  three  hours'  flustration,  heat,  worry,  and  good 
hard  work,  he  had  accomplished  the  following  results :  A  tent, 
very  saggy,  very  askew,  covered  a  four-sided  area  —  it  was  not 
a  rectangle  —  of  very  bumpy  ground.  A  hodge-podge  bonfire, 
in  the  centre  of  which  an  inaccessible  coffee-pot  toppled  menac- 
ingly, alternately  threatened  to  ignite  the  entire  surrounding 
forest  or  to  go  out  altogether  through  lack  of  fuel.     Personal 

'  From  The  Forest.     Doubleday,  Page  &  Company.     Reprinted  by  permissioa 

t8 


ON  MAKING  CAMP 


19 


belongings  strewed  the  ground  near  the  fire,  and  provisions 
cumbered  the  entrance  to  the  tent.  Dick  was  anxiously  mixing 
batter  for  the  cakes,  attempting  to  stir  a  pot  of  rice  often 
enough  to  prevent  it  from  burning,  and  trying  to  rustle  sufficient 
dry  wood  to  keep  the  fire  going.  This  diversity  of  interests 
certainly  made  him  sit  up  and  pay  attention.  At  each  instant 
he  had  to  desert  his  flour  sack  to  rescue  the  coffee-pot,  or  to 
shift  the  kettle,  or  to  dab  hastily  at  the  rice,  or  to  stamp  out 
the  small  brush,  or  to  pile  on  more  dry  twigs.  His  movements 
were  not  graceful.  They  raised  a  ^curry  of  dry  bark,  ashes, 
wood  dust,  twigs,  leaves,  and  pine  needles,  a  certain  proportion 
of  which  found  their  way  into  the  coffee,  the  rice,  and  the  sticky 
batter,  while  the  smaller  articles  of  personal  belonging,  hastily 
dumped  from  the  duffie  bag,  gradually  disappeared  from  view 
in  the  manner  of  Pompeii  and  ancient  Vesuvius.  Dick  burned 
his  fingers  and  stumbled  about  and  swore,  and  looked  so  comi- 
cally pathetically  red-faced  through  the  smoke  that  I,  seated 
jon  the  log,  at  the  same  time  laughed  and  pitied.  And  in  the 
end,  when  he  needed  a  continuous  steady  fire  to  fry  his  cakes, 
he  suddenly  discovered  that  dry  twigs  do  not  make  coals,  and 
that  his  previous  operations  had  used  up  all  the  fuel  within 
easy  circle  of  the  camp. 

So  he  had  to  drop  everything  for  the  purpose  of  rustling 
wood,  while  the  coffee  chilled,  the  rice  cooled,  the  bacon  con- 
gealed, and  all  the  provisions,  cooked  and  uncooked,  gathered 
entomological  specimens.  At  the  last,  the  poor  bedeviled 
theorist  made  a  hasty  meal  of  scorched  food,  brazenly  postponed 
the  washing  of  dishes  until  the  morrow,  and  coiled  about  his 
hummocky  couch  to  dream  the  nightmares  of  complete  ex- 
haustion. 

Poor  Dick !  I  knew  exactly  how  he  felt,  how  the  low  after- 
noon sun  scorched,  how  the  fire  darted  out  at  unexpected 
places,  how  the  smoke  followed  him  around,  no  matter  on  which 
side  of  the  fire  he  placed  himself,  how  the  flies  all  took  to  biting 
when  both  hands  were  occupied,  and  how  they  all  miraculously 
disappeared  when  he  had  set  down  the  frying  pan  and  knife  to 
fight  them.     I  could  sympathize,  too,  with  the  lonely,  forlorn, 


iO       KXPLAXATIOXS   Of    M ECIIAXISMS    AND   PROCESSES 

lost-dop  ft'flini^  that  clutchctl  liim  alter  it  was  all  over.  1 
could  remember  how  big  and  forbiddinp;  and  unfriendly  the 
forest  had  once  looked  to  nie  in  like  circumstances,  so  that  I 
had  felt  suddenly  thrust  outside  into  empty  spaces.  Almost 
was  I  tem[)ted  to  intervene ;  but  I  likeil  Dick,  and  I  wanted  to 
do  him  pood.  This  experience  was  harrowing,  but  it  prepared 
his  mind  for  the  seeds  of  wisdom.  By  the  following  morning 
he  had  chastened  his  spirit,  forgotten  the  assurance  breathed 
from  the  windy  pages  of  the  Boy  Trapper  Library,  and  was 
ready  to  learn. 

Have  you  ever  watched  a  competent  portraitist  at  work  ? 
The  infinite  pains  a  skilled  man  spends  on  the  preliminaries 
before  he  takes  one  step  towards  a  likeness  nearly  always  wears 
down  the  patience  of  the  sitter.  He  measures  with  his  eye,  he 
plumbs,  he  sketches  tcntalively,  he  places  in  here  a  dab,  there 
a  blotch,  he  puts  behind  him  apparently  unproductive  hours  — 
and  then  all  at  once  he  is  ready  to  begin  something  that  will  not 
have  to  be  done  over  again.  An  amateur,  however,  is  carried 
away  by  his  desire  for  results.  He  dashes  in  a  hit-or-miss  early 
effect,  wHch  grows  into  an  approximate  likeness  almost  im- 
mediately, but  which  will  require  inlinite  labor,  alteration,  and 
anxiety  to  beat  into  finished  shape. 

The  case  of  the  artist  in  making  camps  is  exactly  similar, 
and  the  philosophical  reasons  for  his  failure  are  exactly  the  same. 
To  the  superficial  mind  a  camp  is  a  shelter,  a  bright  tire,  and  a 
smell  of  cooking.  So  when  a  man  is  very  tired  he  cuts  across 
lots  to  those  three  results.  He  pitches  his  tent,  lights  his  fire, 
puts  over  his  food  —  and  finds  himself  drowned  in  detail,  like 
my  friend  Dick. 

The  following  is,  in  brief,  what  during  the  next  six  weeks  I 
told  that  youth,  by  precept,  by  homily,  and  by  making  the  solu- 
tion so  obvious  that  he  could  work  it  out  for  himself. 

When  five  or  six  o'clock  draws  near,  begin  to  look  about  you 
for  a  good  level  dry  place,  elevated  some  few  feet  above  the 
surroundings.  Drop  your  pack  or  beach  your  canoe.  Examine 
the  location  carefully.  You  \\all  want  two  trees  about  ten  feet 
apart,  from  which  to  susf^end  your  tent,  and  a  bit  of  flat  ground 


ON   MAKING  CAMP  21 

underneath  them.  Of  course  the  flat  ground  need  not  be  par- 
ticularly unencumbered  by  brush  or  saplings,  so  the  combina- 
tion ought  not  to  be  hard  to  discover.  Now  return  to  your 
canoe.     Do  not  unpack  the  tent. 

With  the  little  axe  clear  the  ground  thoroughly.  By  bending 
a  saphng  over  strongly  with  the  left  hand,  clipping  sharply  at 
the  strained  fibres,  and  then  bending  it  as  strongly  the  other 
way  to  repeat  the  axe  stroke  on  the  other  side,  you  will  find  that 
treelets  of  even  two  or  three  inches  diameter  can  be  felled  by 
two  blows.  In  a  very  few  moments  you  will  have  accomplished 
a  hole  in  the  forest,  and  your  two  supporting  trees  will  stand 
sentinel  at  either  end  of  a  most  respectable-looking  clearing. 
Do  not  unpack  the  tent. 

Now,  although  the  ground  seems  free  of  all  but  unimportant 
growths,  go  over  it  thoroughly  for  little  shrubs  and  leaves. 
They  look  soft  and  yielding,  but  are  often  possessed  of  unex- 
pectedly abrasive  roots.  Besides,  they  mask  the  face  of  the 
ground.  When  you  have  finished  pulling  them  up  by  the  roots, 
you  will  find  that  your  supposedly  level  plot  is  knobby  with 
hummocks.  Stand  directly  over  each  little  mound ;  swing  the 
back  of  your  axe  vigorously  against  it,  adze-wise,  between  your 
legs.  Nine  times  out  of  ten  it  will  crumble,  and  the  tenth  time 
means  merely  a  root  to  cut  or  a  stone  to  pry  out.  At  length 
you  are  possessed  of  a  plot  of  clean,  fresh  earth,  level  and  soft, 
free  from  projections.     But  do  not  unpack  your  tent. 

Lay  a  young  birch  or  maple  an  inch  or  so  in  diameter  across 
a  log.  Two  clips  will  produce  you  a  tent-peg.  If  you  are  in- 
experienced, and  cherish  memories  of  striped  lawn  markees, 
you  will  cut  them  about  six  inches  long.  If  you  are  wise  and 
old  and  gray  in  woods  experience,  you  will  multiply  that  length 
by  four.  Then  your  loops  will  not  slip  off,  and  you  will  have  a 
real  grip  on  mother  earth,  than  which  nothing  can  be  more 
desirable  in  the  event  of  a  heavy  rain  and  wind  squall  about 
midnight.  If  your  axe  is  as  sharp  as  it  ought  to  be,  you  can 
point  them  more  neatly  by  holding  them  suspended  in  front  of 
you  while  you  snip  at  their  ends  with  the  axe,  rather  than  by 
resting  them  against  a  solid  base.     Pile  them  together  at  the 


22       /•:A7'L.I.V.-177().V.V  OF   .\f  EC  HAM  SMS   .WD   P  ROC  ESSES 

edpo  of  till'  rloarinj^.     Cut  a  trotchcd  saplini^  i'i<i;lit  or  ten  feet 
long.     Now  unpack  your  tent. 

In  a  wooded  country  you  will  not  take  the  time  to  fool  with 
lent  poles.  A  stout  line  run  throu,t;h  the  eyelets  and  along  the 
apex  will  string  it  successfully  between  your  two  trees.  Draw 
the  line  as  tight  as  possible,  but  do  not  be  too  unhappy  if,  after 
your  best  efTorts,  it  still  sags  a  little.  That  is  what  your  long 
crotchcd  stick  is  for.  Stake  out  your  four  corners.  If  you  get 
them  in  a  good  rectangle  and  in  such  relation  to  the  ape.x  as  t( 
form  two  isosceles  triangles  of  the  ends,  your  tent  will  stand 
-moothly.  Therefore,  be  an  artist  and  do  it  right.  Once  the 
four  corners  are  well  placed,  the  rest  follows  naturally.  Occa- 
sionally in  the  North  Country  it  will  be  found  that  the  soil  is 
too  thin,  over  the  rocks,  to  grip  the  tent-pegs.  In  that  case 
drive  them  at  a  sharp  angle  as  deep  as  they  will  go,  and  then 
lay  a  large  liat  stone  across  the  slant  of  them.  Thus  anchored, 
you  will  ride  out  a  gale.  Finally,  wedge  your  long  sapling  crotch 
under  the  line  —  outside  the  tent,  of  course  —  to  tighten  it. 
Your  shelter  is  up.  If  you  are  a  woodsman,  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  has  sufficed  to  accomplish  all  this. 

There  remains  the  question  of  a  bed,  and  you'd  better  attend 
to  it  now,  while  your  mind  is  still  occupied  with  the  shelter 
problem.  Fell  a  good  thrifty  young  balsam  and  set  to  work 
pulling  otT  the  fans.  Those  you  cannot  strip  ofT  easily  with  your 
hands  are  too  tough  for  your  purpose.  Lay  them  carelessly 
criscross  against  the  blade  of  your  axe  and  up  the  handle. 
They  will  not  drop  off,  and  when  you  shoulder  that  axe  you  will 
resemble  a  walking  haystack,  and  will  probably  experience  a 
genuine  emotion  of  surprise  at  the  amount  of  balsam  that  can 
be  thus  transported.  In  the  tent  lay  smoothly  one  layer  of 
fans,  convex  side  up,  butts  toward  the  foot.  Now  thatch  the 
rest  on  top  of  this,  thrusting  the  butt  ends  underneath  the  layer 
already  j)laccd  in  such  a  manner  as  to  leave  the  fan  ends  curving 
up  and  down  towards  the  foot  of  your  bed.  Your  second 
emotion  of  surprise  will  assail  you  as  you  realize  how  much 
spring  inheres  in  Vjut  two  or  three  layers  thus  arranged.  When 
you  have  spread  your  rubber  blanket,  you  will  be  possessed  of  a 


ON  MAKING  CAMP  23 

bed  as  soft  as  and  a  great  deal  more  aromatic  and  luxurious 
than  any  you  would  be  able  to  buy  in  town. 

Your  next  care  is  to  clear  a  living  space  in  front  of  the  tent. 
This  will  take  you  about  twenty  seconds,  for  you  need  not  be 
particular  as  to  stumps,  hummocks,  or  small  brush.  All  you 
want  is  room  for  cooking,  and  suitable  space  for  spreading  out 
your  provisions.     But  do  not  unpack  anything  yet. 

Your  fireplace  you  will  build  of  two  green  logs  laid  side  by 
side.  The  fire  is  to  be  made  between  them.  They  should  con- 
verge slightly,  in  order  that  the  utensils  to  be  rested  across 
them  may  be  of  various  sizes.  If  your  vicinity  yields  flat  stones, 
they  build  up  even  better  than  the  logs  —  unless  they  happen  to 
be  of  granite.  Granite  explodes  most  disconcertingly.  Poles 
sharpened,  driven  upright  into  the  ground,  and  then  pressed 
down  to  slant  over  the  fireplace,  will  hold  your  kettles  a  suitable 
height  above  the  blaze. 

Fuel  should  be  your  next  thought.  A  roll  of  birch  bark  first 
of  all.  Then  some  of  the  small,  dry,  resinous  branches  that 
stick  out  from  the  trunks  of  medium-sized  pines,  living  or  dead. 
Finally,  the  wood  itself.  If  you  are  merely  cooking  supper,  and 
have  no  thought  for  a  warmth  lire  or  a  friendship  fire,  I  should 
advise  you  to  stick  to  the  dry  pine  branches,  helped  out,  in  the 
interest  of  coals  for  frying,  by  a  little  dry  maple  or  birch.  If  you 
need  more  of  a  blaze,  you  will  have  to  search  out,  fell,  and  split 
a  standing  dead  tree.  This  is  not  at  all  necessary.  I  have 
travelled  many  weeks  in  the  woods  without  using  a  more  formi- 
dable implement  than  a  one-pound  hatchet.  •  Pile  your  fuel  —  a 
complete  supply,  all  you  are  going  to  need  —  by  the  side  of 
your  already  improvised  fireplace.  But,  as  you  value  your 
peace  of  mind,  do  not  fool  with  matches. 

It  will  be  a  little  difficult  to  turn  your  mind  from  the  concept 
of  fire,  to  which  all  these  preparations  have  compellingly  led  it, 
—  especially  as  a  fire  is  the  one  cheerful  thing  your  weariness 
needs  the  most  at  this  time  of  day,  —  but  you  must  do  so. 
Leave  everything  just  as  it  is,  and  unpack  your  provisions. 

First  of  all,  rinse  your  utensils.  Hang  your  tea  pail,  with  the 
proper  quantity  of  water,  from  one  slanting  pole,  and  your  kettle 


24       KXPI„iXAriU.\S  OF  MKCIIAXISMS   AM)   PROCESHES 

irom  tlu"  clluT.  Salt  the  water  in  the  latter  recei)tacle.  Peel 
your  i)otat»)es,  if  you  have  any ;  open  your  little  provision  sacks ; 
puncture  >our  tin  cans,  if  you  have  any;  slice  your  bacon; 
clean  your  fish ;  pluck  your  birds ;  mix  your  dough  or  batter ; 
sj-iread  yuur  tal)le  tinware  on  your  tarpaulin  or  a  sheet  of  birch 
liark;  cut  a  kettle-lifter;  see  that  everything  you  are  going  to 
need  is  within  reach  of  your  hand  as  you  squat  on  your  heels 
before  the  fireplace.     Now  light  your  fire. 

The  civilized  method  is  to  build  a  fire  and  then  to  touch  i 
match  to  the  completed  structure.  If  well  done  and  in  a  grate 
or  stove,  this  works  beautifully.  Only  in  the  woods  you  have 
no  grate.  The  only  sure  way  is  as  follows:  Hold  a  piece  of 
birch  bark  in  your  hand.  Shelter  your  match  all  you  know 
how.  When  the  bark  has  caught,  lay  it  in  your  fireplace,  assist 
it  with  more  bark,  and  gradually  build  up,  twig  by  twig,  stick 
li\-  stick,  from  the  first  pin-point  of  flame,  all  the  fire  you  are 
going  to  need.  It  will  not  be  much.  The  little  hot  blaze  rising 
between  the  parallel  logs  directly  against  the  aluminum  of  your 
utensils  \nll  do  the  business  in  very  short  order.  In  fifteen 
minutes  at  most  your  meal  is  ready.  And  you  have  been  able 
to  attain  to  hot  food  thus  quickly  because  you  were  prepared. 

In  case  of  very  wet  weather  the  affair  is  altered  somewhat. 
If  the  rain  has  just  commenced,  do  not  stop  to  clear  out  very 
thoroughly,  but  get  your  tent  up  as  quickly  as  possible,  in  order 
to  preserve  an  area  of  comparatively  dry  ground.  But  if  the 
earth  is  already  soaked,  you  had  best  build  a  bonfire  to  dry  out 
by,  while  you  cook  over  a  smaller  fire  a  little  distance  removed, 
leaving  the  tent  until  later.  Or  it  may  be  well  not  to  pitch 
the  tent  at  all,  but  to  lay  it  across  slanting  supports  at  an  angle 
to  reflect  the  heat  against  the  ground. 

It  is  no  joke  to  light  a  fire  in  the  rain.  An  Indian  can  do  it 
more  easily  than  a  white  man,  but  even  an  Indian  has  more 
trouble  than  the  story-books  acknowledge.  You  wdll  need  a 
greater  quantity  of  birch  bark,  a  bigger  pile  of  resinous  dead 
limbs  from  the  pine  trees,  and  perhaps  the  heart  of  a  dead  pine 
stub  or  stump.  Then,  with  infinite  patience,  you  may  be  able 
to  tease  the  flame.     Sometimes  a  small  dead  birch  contains  in 


ON  MAKING  CAMP  25 

the  waterproof  envelope  of  its  bark  a  species  of  powdery,  dry 
touchwood  that  takes  the  flame  readily.  Still,  it  is  easy  enough 
to  start  a  blaze  —  a  very  fine-looking,  cheerful,  healthy  blaze ; 
the  difficulty  is  to  prevent  its  petering  out  the  moment  your 
back  is  turned. 

But  the  depths  of  woe  are  sounded  and  the  limit  of  patience 
reached  when  you  are  forced  to  get  breakfast  in  the  dripping 
forest.  After  the  chill  of  early  dawn  you  are  always  reluctant 
in  the  best  of  circumstances  to  leave  your  blankets,  to  fimible 
with  numbed  fingers  for  matches,  to  handle  cold  steel  and  siippeiy 
fish.  But  when  every  leaf,  twig,  sapling,  and  tree  contains  a 
douche  of  cold  water ;  when  the  wetness  oozes  about  your  moc- 
casins from  the  soggy  earth  with  every  step  you  take;  when 
you  look  about  you  and  realize  that  somehow,  before  you  can 
get  a  mouthful  to  banish  that  before-breakfast  ill-humor,  you 
must  brave  cold  water  in  an  attempt  to  find  enough  fuel  to  cook 
with,  then  your  philosophy  and  early  religious  training  avail 
you  little.  The  first  ninety-nine  times  you  are  forced  to  do  this 
you  will  probably  squirm  circumspectly  through  the  brush  in  a 
vain  attempt  to  avoid  shaking  water  down  on  yourself;  you 
will  resent  each  failure  to  do  so,  and  at  the  end  your  rage  will 
personify  the  wilderness  for  the  purpose  of  one  sweeping 
anathema.  The  hundredth  time  will  bring  you  wisdom.  You 
will  do  the  anathema  —  rueful  rather  than  enraged  —  from  the 
tent  opening.  Then  you  will  plunge  boldly  in  and  get  wet.  It 
is  not  pleasant,  but  it  has  to  be  done,  and  you  will  save  much 
temper,  not  to  speak  of  time. 

Dick  and  I  earned  our  diplomas  at  this  sort  of  work.  It 
rained  twelve  of  the  first  fourteen  days  we  were  out.  Toward 
the  end  of  that  two  weeks  I  doubt  if  even  an  Indian  could  have 
discovered  a  dry  stick  of  wood  in  the  entire  country.  The  land 
was  of  Laurentian  rock  formation,  running  in  parallel  ridges  of 
bare  stone  separated  by  hollows  carpeted  with  a  thin  layer  of 
earth.  The  ridges  were  naturally  ill  adapted  to  camping,  and 
the  cup  hollows  speedily  filled  with  water  until  they  became 
most  creditable  little  marshes.  Often  we  hunted  for  an  hour  or 
so  before  we  could  find  any  sort  of  a  spot  to  pitch  our  tent.     As 


^6       EXPUXATIOXS  OF   .\fFCnANIS.\fS   AXf)   PROCESSES 

(or  ;i  tin-,  it  was  a  niatlcr  of  thoppiii}^  down  dead  trees  large 
onouuli  to  have  remained  dry  inside,  of  armfuls  of  birch  bark, 
and  of  the  patient  dryinj,'  out,  by  repeated  ignition,  of  enough 
fuel  to  cook  very  simple  meals.  Of  course  we  could  have  kept 
a  big  tire  going  easily  encnigh,  but  we  were  travelling  steadily 
and  had  not  time  enough  for  that.  In  these  trying  circumstances 
Dick  showed  that,  no  matter  how  much  of  a  tenderfoot  he 
might  be.  he  was  game  enough  under  stress. 

But  to  return  to  our  pleasant  afternoon.  While  you  are 
consuming  the  supper  you  will  hang  o\'er  some  water  to  heat 
for  the  dish-washing,  and  the  dish-washing  you  will  attend 
to  the  moment  you  have  finished  eating.  Do  not  commit  the 
fallacy  of  sitting  down  for  a  little  rest.  Better  finish  the  job 
completely  while  you  are  about  it.  You  will  appreciate  leisure 
so  much  more  later.  In  lack  of  a  wash-rag  you  will  find  that 
a  bunch  of  tall  grass  bent  double  makes  an  ideal  swab. 

Now  brush  the  flies  from  your  tent,  drop  the  mosquito-proof 
lining,  and  enjoy  yourself.  The  whole  task,  from  first  to  last, 
has  consumed  but  a  little  over  an  hour.  And  you  are  through 
for  the  day.  In  the  woods,  as  nowhere  else,  you  will  earn  your 
leisure  only  by  forethought.  Make  no  move  until  you  know  it 
follows  the  line  of  greatest  economy.  To  putter  is  to  wallow 
in  endless  desolation.  If  you  cannot  move  directly  and  sw'iftly 
and  certainly  along  the  line  of  least  resistance  in  everything 
you  do,  take  a  guide  with  you ;  you  are  not  of  the  woods  people. 
You  will  ne\'er  enjoy  doing  for  yourself,  for  your  days  will  be 
crammed  with  unending  labor. 

It  is  but  a  little  after  seven.  The  long  crimson  shadows  of 
the  North  Country  are  lifting  across  the  aisles  of  the  forest. 
You  sit  on  a  log,  or  lie  on  your  back,  and  blow  contented  clouds 
straight  up  into  the  air.  Nothing  can  disturb  you  now.  The 
wilflerness  is  yours,  for  you  have  taken  from  it  the  essentials 
of  primitive  civilization,  —  shelter,  warmth,  and  food.  An 
hour  ago  a  rainstorm  would  have  been  a  minor  catastrophe. 
Xow  you  do  not  care.  Blow  high,  blow  low,  you  have  made 
for  yourself  an  abiding  place,  so  that  the  signs  of  the  sky  are 
less  important  to  you  than  to  the  city  dweller  who  wonders  if 


BREEDING  BROWN  PELICANS  27 

he  should  take  an  umbrella.  From  your  doorstep  you  can  look 
placidly  out  on  the  great  unknown.  The  noises  of  the  forest 
draw  close  about  you  their  circle  of  mystery,  but  the  circle  can- 
not break  upon  you,  for  here  you  have  conjured  the  homely 
sounds  of  kettle  and  crackling  flame  to  keep  ward.  Thronging 
down  through  the  twilight  steal  the  jealous  woodland  shadows, 
awful  in  the  sublimity  of  the  Silent  Places,  but  at  the  sentry 
outposts  of  your  fire-lit  trees  they  pause  like  wild  animals, 
hesitating  to  advance.  The  wilderness,  untamed,  dreadful  at 
night,  is  all  about ;  but  this  one  little  spot  you  have  reclaimed. 
Here  is  something  before  unknown  to  the  eerie  spirits  of  the 
woods.  As  you  sleepily  knock  the  ashes  from  the  pipe,  you  look 
about  on  the  famihar  scene  with  accustomed  satisfaction. 
You  are  at  home. 


BREEDING  BROWN  PELICANS  ^ 

C.  William  Beebe 

It  is  a  great  compliment  to  the  conditions  under  which  birds 
in  captivity  are  kept  when  such  a  large  and  wary  species  as  the 
brown  pelican  will  breed  successfully.  For  many  years  these 
birds  have  played  with  sticks  in  the  large  flying  cage,  gather- 
ing them  into  tentative  heaps  and  allowing  them  again  to  be 
scattered.  Two  seasons  ago  when  a  severe  wind  storm  had 
filled  the  cage  with  a  large  quantity  of  twigs,  the  birds  seemed 
to  receive  a  correspondingly  strong  stimulation  and  went  to 
work  with  a  will,  erecting  a  firm,  well-built  structure.  One 
stick  at  a  time,  however  small,  was  brought  in  the  very  tip  of 
their  great  beaks  and  with  the  utmost  seriousness  added  to  the 
nest,  tucked  in  with  gentle  pokings,  sometimes  only  to  be  re- 
moved and  placed  elsewhere.  A  single  egg  was  laid,  but  nothing 
came  of  the  venture. 

This  year  an  abundance  of  sticks  and  twigs  was  supplied  as 
soon  as  the  birds  were  placed  out  of  doors,  and  nest-building 

1  Zoological  Society  Bulletin,  May,  1914. 


jS       KA77..I.V.ir/0.V.S-    ()/•   .\fi:cnAXf.SMS  A\D  PROCESS f-lS 

l>c<:an  nt  onto.  Two  pairs  were  thus  occupitui,  and  near  the 
imIrc  oi  the  water  two  nests  were  built.  One  nesl  resulted  in 
tailure,  hut  upon  the  sinp;le  egg  of  the  second  pair  of  brown  peli- 
cans |>atient  incubation  soon  began. 

At  last  the  reward  came,  and  the  first  young  pelican  ever 
hatched  north  of  Florida  l)roke  through  its  shell.  There  are 
few  more  ugly  things  in  the  world  than  a  young  pelican.  Ljnng 
prone  in  the  nest  it  appears  wholly  lifeless,  and  of  the  color  and 
texture  rather  of  a  bit  of  water-soaked  beef  than  a  bird.  It 
seems  to  have  no  definite  organs  or  symmetry'.  It  is  naked, 
dirty-gray,  with  tiny,  crooked,  wormlike  wings,  and  a  blind, 
featureless  head.  The  newly  hatched  chick  is  an  avian  postu- 
late which  we  must  accept  but  which  requires  all  our  faith  in 
Mother  Nature  —  and  the  pelican.  Nevertheless  in  the  little 
creature  are  the  latent  possibilities  of  a  splendid  winged  creature 
which  can  swim  upon  the  water,  walk  on  the  land,  soar  for  hours 
at  a  time  on  ahnost  motionless  wings  high  in  the  heaven,  and 
finally  dive  into  the  ocean  in  pursuit  of  its  prey.  Surely  the 
pelican  in  the  course  of  its  development  offers  the  utmost  an- 
tithesis of  helplessness  and  achievement. 

After  a  fortnight  our  faith  has  its  reward,  for  the  gray  nestling 
worm  has  sprouted  a  garb  of  grayish  white  down ;  its  eyes  have 
opened,  and  in  the  somewhat  lengthened  beak  we  may  even 
discern  the  promise  of  the  future  capacious  pouch.  In  place 
of  helpless  quiescence  it  moves  about,  and  when  chilly,  pushes 
beneath  the  warm  breast  plumage  of  the  mother,  and  at  times 
clamors  for  food.  In  the  last  newly  acquired  character  lies  one 
of  the  most  interesting  facts  in  the  life  of  this  species.  It  truly 
calls  for  its  food.  Not,  to  be  sure,  with  the  pleasant  urging  of 
young  chicks,  but  at  least  with  a  decided  vocal  demand  —  a 
rasping  croak,  so  strong  that  it  may  be  heard  many  yards  away. 
The  far  distant  ancestors  of  pelicans  undoubtedly  had  need  of 
voices.  They  may  even  ha\e  had  a  song  for  all  we  know. 
And  now,  to  the  chick,  as  long  as  it  requires  food,  is  vouchsafed 
a  voice,  V»Taen  it  begins  to  forage  for  itself  and  takes  up  the 
serious  business  of  life  —  that  of  fishing  —  silence  falls  gradually 
upon  it,  the  croak  becomes  weaker  day  by  day,  and  soon  the  hiss 


BREEDING  BROWN  PELICANS  2g 

of  air  rushing  through  the  throat  is  the  only  sound  it  can  pro- 
duce. The  only  vocal  sound  that  is,  for  it  can  clatter  its  beak 
vigorously  when  it  strives  to  frighten  an  enemy.  On  Pelican 
Island  I  have  listened  with  wonder  to  the  uproar  from  the  throats 
of  scores  of  young  birds,  while  the  parents  were  leaving  and  re- 
turning, all  mutely,  dumbly  busy  with  their  life  work.  It  is  a 
problem,  both  interesting  to  the  ornithologist  and  significant  to 
the  philosophical  lover  of  wild  things,  why  the  ears  of  the  old 
pelican  remain  so  keenly  attuned  to  the  cries  of  the  young  birds 
while  they  themselves  are  wholly  unable  to  communicate  with 
one  another. 

To  the  few  naturalists  who  have  enjoyed  watching  a  breeding 
colony  of  brown  pelicans,  the  method  of  feeding  has  always  been 
of  great  interest.  Heretofore  we  have  known  it  in  New  York 
from  descriptions  and  photographs,  but  now  we  may  look  for- 
ward each  season  to  the  opportunity  of  observing  it  at  first 
hand  in  the  aviary  of  the  Zoological  Society.  The  mother  has 
fed,  fish  after  fish  being  engulfed  and  swallowed  whole,  and  after 
a  time  she  returns  to  her  nest,  her  great  wings  fanning  the  air, 
yet  allowing  her  to  come  to  rest  so  gently  that  the  topmost  twigs 
are  hardly  disturbed.  The  young  bird  renews  its  imperious 
clamor,  and,  clad  in  its  fluffy  white  down,  stands  in  front  of  the 
parent,  wildly  waving  the  stumpy,  crooked  organs  which  rep- 
resent wings.  The  croaks  never  cease  until  the  mother  pelican 
opens  her  immense  beak,  points  it  downward,  and  the  young 
bird,  eagerly  pressing  forward,  pokes  its  head  into  the  gaping, 
leathery  pouch.  Farther  and  farther  it  goes,  at  last  actually 
stepping  upon  the  rim  of  the  beak.  At  this  point  the  spectators 
begin  to  be  nervous  and  more  than  once  have  been  on  the  point 
of  summoning  keepers  to  prevent  the  horrible  tragedy  about  to 
be  enacted  before  their  eyes.  All  sympathy  is  with  the  young 
bird  as  it  apparently  pushes  on  to  its  doom,  a  quick  death  in  the 
deep  interior  of  the  mother.  From  this  point,  however,  events 
proceed  too  rapidly  for  intervention.  Up  and  up,  and  then 
down  goes  the  young  bird,  until  he  has  pushed  his  way  beyond 
the  beak  and  down  the  neck.  Then  begin  contortions  which 
turn  the  sympathy  of  the  spectators  to  the  mother,  for  a  terrible 


^O       /•:A7»L.I.Y.I770A*.S-  of  .\fECIIAXrS.\fS   AM)   PROCESSES 

contrst  is  apparently  takinp  plait-  between  the  youn^  bird  and 
its  parent,  and  it  seems  inevitable  that  one  must  emerge  from 
the  conllict  mangled  and  disabled.  After  a  moment  of  quiet 
the  nestling  pelican  again  appears  in  the  light  of  day,  not  only 
unhurt,  but  replete  with  a  bountiful  repast  of  fish,  which  stills 
the  croaks  until  a  few  hours  have  passed,  when  hunger  again 
arouses  him  to  vocal  utterance.  He  steps  out  of  his  mother's 
beak,  balances  for  a  moment  on  very  wobbly  legs,  looks  about 
wholly  unconscious  of  the  varying  emotions  he  has  aroused  in 
the  onlooker,  and  turning,  burrows  deeply  beneath  the  living 
coverlet  of  feathers  which  for  so  many  weeks  has  patiently 
sheltered  him  day  and  night  from  cold,  from  rain,  and  the 
threatened  attacks  of  other  birds  in  the  great  cage  which  is  his 
world. 

THE  for:matiox  of  vowels  1 

Edward  B.  Tylor 

What  vowels  are,  is  a  matter  which  has  been  for  some  years 
well  understood.  They  are  compound  musical  tones  such  as, 
in  the  vox  humana  stop  of  the  organ,  are  sounded  by  reeds 
(vibrating  tongues)  fitted  to  organ  pipes  of  particular  con- 
struction. The  manner  of  formation  of  vowels  by  the  voice  is 
shortly  this.  There  are  situated  in  the  larynx  a  pair  of  vibrat- 
ing membranes  called  the  vocal  chords,  which  may  be  rudely 
imitated  by  stretching  a  piece  of  sheet  india-rubber  over  the 
open  end  of  a  tube,  so  as  to  form  tw'o  half  covers  to  it,  "like  the 
parchment  of  a  drum  split  across  the  middle ;",  when  the  tube  is 
blown  through,  the  india-rubber  flaps  will  vibrate  as  the  vocal 
chords  do  in  the  larynx,  and  give  out  a  sound.  In  the  human 
voice,  the  mu.sical  ellect  of  the  vibrating  chords  is  increased 
by  the  cavity  of  the  mouth,  which  acts  as  a  resonator  or  sounding- 
box,  and  which  also,  Vjy  its  shape  at  any  moment,  modifies  the 
musical  "quality"  of  the  sound  produced.  Quality,  which  is 
independent  of  pitch,  depends  on  the  harmonic  overtones  ac- 

'  From  Primitive  Culture,  Chap.  V. 


OUTLINE:   THE  HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES         31 

companying  the  fundamental  tone  which  alone  musical  notation 
takes  account  of :  this  quality  makes  the  difference  between 
the  same  note  on  two  instruments,  flute  and  piano  for  instance, 
while  some  instruments,  as  the  violin,  can  give  to  one  note  a 
wide  variation  of  quality.  To  such  quality  the  formation  of 
vowels  is  due.  This  is  perfectly  shown  by  the  common  Jews'- 
harp.  which  when  struck  can  be  made  to  utter  the  vowels 
a,  e,  i,  0,  u,  etc.,  by  simply  putting  the  mouth  in  the  proper 
position  for  speaking  these  vowels.  In  this  experiment  the 
player's  voice  emits  no  sound,  but  the  vibrating  tongue  of  the 
Jews'-harp  placed  in  front  of  the  mouth  acts  as  a  substitute  for 
the  vocal  chords,  and  the  vowel  sounds  are  produced  by  the 
various  positions  of  the  cavity  of  the  mouth  modifying  the 
quality  of  the  note,  by  bringing  out  with  different  degrees  of 
strength  the  series  of  harmonic  tones  of  which  it  is  composed. 


OUTLINE:  THE    HOUSE    OF    REPRESENTATIVES 

WooDROw  Wilson 

I.   The  House  of  Representatives  is  the  chamber  in  which  the 
people  are  directly  represented. 
A.   It  differs  in  purpose  and  constitution  from  the  Senate. 
II.   The  House  is  a  business  body  rather  than  a  deliberative  as- 
sembly. 
III.    It  is  organized,  for  the  transaction  of  business,  into  a  number  of 
standing  committees. 
A .   There  are  fifty-seven  01  these  committees,  each  charged  with 
some  special  branch  of  legislative  business. 
IV.  The  committees  decide  what  matters  shall  be  presented  before 
the  House. 

A.  Every  bill  introduced  by  a  member  is  sent  to  the  appro- 

priate committee,  which  throws  it  aside  altogether  or  alters 
it  to  suit  its  own  views. 

B.  A  private  bill  can  be  taken  up  directly  in  the  House  only  by 

a  suspension  of  the  rules. 
V.   The  transaction  of  business  is  regulated  by  the  Speaker  and  the 
Committee  on  Rules. 


:  XPLAXATlOyS  OF   MECIIAMSMS  A.\D   PROCESSES 

\  I     The  Speaker  of  the  House  has  greater  powers  than  the  presiding 
DtViccr  of  any  other  legislative  assembly. 

A.  He  apjHjints  all  the  loniniillees,  and  in  such  a  way  as  Lo  re- 

tain direct  control  of  the  action  of  the  House. 
I.  Even  though  he  is  limited  by  well-established  precedents, 
he  can  always  iletermine  the  majority  of  the  appoint- 
ments. 

B.  He  decides  the  committee  to  which  a  question  shall  be  re- 

ferred when  there  is  any  doubt  about  the  reference. 
C".    He  assigns  the  reports  of  the  committees  to  the  several 
calendars  upon  which  the  business  of  the  House  is  allotted 
its  time  for  consideration. 
1 .  In  this  way  he  can  make  it  likely  that  a  bill  shall  not  be 
reached  at  all. 

D.  He  controls  debate  by  his  prerogative  of  "recognition." 

1.  No  one  can  be  " recognized "  w'ithout  the  previous  con- 

sent of  the  chairman  of  the  reporting  committee  or 
the  Speaker. 

2.  In  the  intervals  of  calendar  business,  no  one  but  the 

leader  on  the  floor  of  either  party  can  gain  the  floor 
to  make  a  motion  unless  he  has  previously  declared 
his  intention  to  the  Speaker. 

E.  He  directly  controls  the  Committee  on  Rules,  which  is  a 

ver>'  important  part  of  the  party  machinery. 

1.  Originally  the  Committee  on  Rules  merely  reported  to 

each  new  House  the  body  of  standing  rules  under  which 
it  was  to  act. 

2.  At  present  it  can  sweep  aside  the  ordinary  routine  and 

bring  in  a  schedule  of  action  which  will  enable  the 
House  to  get  at  the  most  important  questions. 
\'ir.    The  Speaker  and  the  committees  are  not  unrestricted  in  their 
action. 

A.  The  Speaker  is  an  instrument  of  the  House  as  well  as  a 

leader,  and  his  decisions  can  be  overriden  by  the  House. 

B.  The  Committee  on  Rules  is  expected  to  arrange  for  con- 

siderable discussion  on  certain  important  public  measures. 
\TII.   The  private  member  has  a  court  of  last  resort  in  the  party 
caucus. 
A.  The  caucxis  is  an  outside  conference  of  the  members  of  the 
majority  at  which  questions  are  decided  which  it  is  im- 
possible to  take  up  on  the  floor  of  the  House. 


OUTLINE:    THE  HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES  T)^ 

1.  Attendance  is  not  compulsory,  but  absence  is  considered 

a  sign  of  disloyalty. 

2.  There  is  free  discussion,  but  it  is  a  point  of  honor  to 

keep  secret  the  substance  of  the  discussions. 

3.  To  the  conclusions  of  the  caucus  the  Speaker  himself  is 

subject. 
IX.   The  committees  carry  on  their  business  in  private. 

A .  Public  hearings  are  granted  on  certain  bills,  but  such  hear- 

ings are  exceptional. 

B.  The  reports  of  the  chairmen  do  not  contain  the  elements 

of  contested  opinion  which  may  have  shown  themselves 
in  private  conference. 
X.  Each  committee  is  constituted  as  a  miniature  House. 

A.  The  minority  party  is  represented  in  proportion  to  its 

numerical  strength  in  the  House. 

B.  The  minority  members  are  often  influential  in  shaping 

reports  on  matters  on  which  no  sharp  party  lines  have 
been  drawn. 

C.  On  technical  matters  like  manufactures,  banking,  naval 

construction,  or  foreign  affairs,  members  of  the  minority 
who  have  had  long  experience  may  even  dominate  the 
committees. 

D.  Business  is  transacted  with  more  efficiency  because  with 

less  formality  and  party  feeling  than  on  the  floor  of 
the  House. 
XI.   The  minority  is  organized  in  the  same  manner  as  the  ma- 
jority. 
A.   It  has  a  formally  chosen  floor  leader,  who  can  become 
Speaker  as  soon  as  his  party  obtains  a  majority,  and  a 
caucus. 
XII.   The  House  of  Representatives  is  one  of  the  most  powerful 
pieces  of  our  whole  governmental  machinery  and  its  power 
is  centred  and  summed  up  in  the  Speaker. 

A .  The  leader  of  the  Senate  must  deal  with  the  Speaker  alone 

when  there  is  business  to  be  taken  up  in  conference  by 
the  two  chambers. 

B.  Without  the  Speaker's  consent  and  approval  the  President 

cannot  hope  to  have  legislation  adopted. 

C.  Members  of  the  cabinet  must  study  the  Speaker's  views 

and  purposes  if  they  would  obtain  appropriations  or 
success  for  their  cherished  measures. 


34     i:\ri..\.\Ain).\s  oi-  mixham.sms  .wd  rRoci'issES 
rm:  iioisi;  ok  ki:i'KKSEXTAriVES» 

WooDRow  Wilson 

I.  Thk  House  and  Senate  arc  naturally  unlike.  They  are 
different  both  in  constitution  and.  character.  They  do  not  rep- 
resent the  same  things.  The  House  of  Rejiresentatives  is  by 
intention  the  popular  chamber,  meant  to  represent  the  people 
by  direct  election  through  an  extensive  suffrage,  while  the  Senate 
was  designed  to  represent  the  states  as  political  units,  as  the 
constituent  members  of  the  Union.  The  terms  of  membership 
in  the  two  houses,  moreover,  are  different.  The  two  chambers 
were  unquestionably  intended  to  derive  their  authority  from 
different  sources  and  to  speak  A\'ith  different  voices  in  affairs ; 
and  however  much  they  may  have  departed  from  their  original 
characters  in  the  changeful  processes  of  our  politics,  they  still 
represent  many  sharp  contrasts  to  one  another,  and  must  be  de- 
scribed as  playing,  not  the  same  but  very  distinct  and  dis- 
similar roles  in  affairs. 

II.  Perhaps  the  contrast  between  them  is  in  certain  respects 
even  sharper  and  clearer  now  than  in  the  earlier  days  of  our 
history,  when  the  House  was  smaller  and  its  functions  simpler. 
The  House  once  debated ;  now  it  does  not  debate.  It  has  not 
the  time.  There  would  be  too  many  debaters,  and  there  are 
too  many  subjects  of  debate.  It  is  a  business  bod}^  and  it  must 
get  its  business  done.  When  the  late  Mr.  Reed  once,  upon 
a  well-known  occasion,  thanked  God  that  the  House  was  not 
a  deliberate  assembly,  there  was  no  doubt  a  dash  of  half-cynical 
humor  in  the  remark,  such  as  so  often  gave  spice  and  biting 
force  to  what  he  said,  but  there  was  the  sober  earnest  of  a  serious 
man  of  affairs,  too.  He  knew  the  vast  mass  of  business  the 
House  undertook  to  transact:  that  it  had  made  itself  a  great 
organ  of  direction,  and  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  it  to  get 
through  its  calendars  if  it  were  to  attempt  to  discuss  in  open 
house,  instead  of  in  its  committee  rooms,  the  measures  it  acted 

'  From  Conslilulional  Govrrnmenl  in  the  United  Slates.  The  Columbia  University 
**ress.  1008.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


THE   HOUSE  OF   REPRESENTATIVES  35 

upon.  The  Senate  has  retained  its  early  rules  of  procedure 
without  material  alteration.  It  is  still  a  place  of  free  and  pro- 
longed debate.  It  will  not  curtail  the  privilege  of  its  members 
to  say  what  they  please,  at  whatever  length.  But  the  senators 
are  comparatively  few  in  number ;  they  can  afford  the  indulgence. 
The  House  cannot.  The  Senate  may  remain  individualistic, 
atomistic,  but  the  House  must  be  organic,  —  an  efficient  instru- 
ment, not  a  talkative  assembly. 

III.  A  numerous  body  like  the  House  of  Representatives  is 
naturally  and  of  course  unfit  for  organic,  creative  action  through 
debate.  Debate,  indeed,  is  not  a  creative  process.  It  is  critical. 
It  does  not  produce ;  it  tests.  A  large  assembly  cannot  form 
policies  cr  formulate  measures,  and  the  House  of  Representatives 
is  merely  a  large  assembly,  like  any  other  public  meeting  in  its 
unfitness  for  business.  Like  other  public  meetings,  it  must  send 
committees  out  to  formulate  its  resolves.  It  organizes  itself, 
therefore,  into  committees,  not  occasional  committees,  formed 
from  time  to  time,  but  standing  committees  permanently  charged 
with  its  business  and  given  every  prerogative  of  suggestion  and 
explanation,  in  order  that  each  piece  of  legislative  business  may 
be  systematically  attended  to  by  a  body  small  enough  to  digest 
and  perfect  it. 

Ill  A.  For  each  important  subject  of  legislation  there  is  a 
standing  committee.  There  is,  for  example,  a  Committee  on 
Appropriations,  a  Committee  on  Ways  and  Means,  that  is,  on 
the  sources  and  objects  of  taxation,  a  Committee  on  Banking  and 
Currency,  a  Committee  on  Commerce,  a  Committee  on  Manu- 
factures, a  Committee  on  Agriculture,  a  Committee  on  Rail- 
ways and  Canals,  a  Committee  on  Rivers  and  Harbors,  a  Com- 
mittee on  the  Merchant  Marine  and  Fisheries,  a  Committee  on 
the  Judiciary,  a  Committee  on  Foreign  Affairs,  a  Committee  on 
Public  Lands,  a  Committee  on  Land  Claims,  a  Committee  on 
War  Claims,  a  Committee  on  Post  Offices  and  Post  Roads,  a 
Committee  on  Military  Affairs,  a  Committee  on  Naval  Affairs, 
a  Committee  on  Indian  Affairs,  a  Committee  on  Education,  a 
Committee  on  Labor,  —  the  business  likely  to  be  brought  to 
the  attention  of  the  House  being  thoroughly,  indeed  somewhat 


;()     i:xri.A.\ATio.\s  or  .uf.cii.ixisms  a\d  processes 

niinutolv.  classifiod  and  the  committiis  hiiniz  some  fifty-seven 
in  numl>cr. 

rV.  Kvery  bill  introduced  must  be  ^tiiL  lo  a  committee.  It 
woulii  probal)ly  be  impossible  to  think  of  any  legitimate  subject 
lor  legislation  upon  which  a  bill  could  be  drawn  up  for  whose 
consideration  no  standing  committee  has  been  provided.  If  a 
new  subject  should  turn  up,  the  House  would  no  doubt  presently 
create  a  new  committee.  The  thousands  of  bills  annually  in- 
troduced are  promptly  distributed,  therefore;  go  almost  auto- 
matically to  the  several  committees ;  and  as  automatically, 
it  must  be  added,  disappear.  The  measures  reported  to  the 
House  are  measures  which  the  committees  formulate.  They 
may  find  some  member's  bill  suitable  and  acceptable,  and  report 
it  substantially  unchanged,  or  they  may  pull  it  about  and  alter 
it,  or  they  may  throw  it  aside  altogether  and  frame  a  measure 
of  their  own,  or  they  may  do  nothing,  make  no  report  at  all. 
Few  bills  ever  see  the  light  again  after  being  referred  to  a  com- 
mittee. The  business  of  the  House  is  what  the  Committees 
choose  to  make  it.  What  the  House  of  Commons  depends 
upon  its  committee,  the  Government,  to  do,  the  House  depends 
upon  its  fifty-seven  committees  to  do.  The  private  member's 
bill  has  a  little  better  chance,  indeed,  of  being  debated  in  the 
Commons  than  in  the  House  of  Representatives.  The  House 
of  Commons  does  usually  set  aside  one  day  a  week  for  the  con- 
sideration of  private  members'  bills,  when  the  Government  is 
not  pressed  for  time  and  does  not  insist  upon  using  every  day 
itself;  and  those  members  who  are  fortunate  enough  to  draw 
first  places  in  the  make-up  of  the  calendars  for  those  days  may 
have  the  pleasure  of  getting  their  proposals  debated  and  voted 
upon.  But  in  the  House  of  Representatives  there  is  only  the 
very  slender  chance  of  getting  the  rules  suspended,  an  irregularity 
which  the  business-like  chamber  has  grown  ver>-shy  of  permitting. 

V.  The  ver\'  complexity  and  bulk  of  all  this  machinery  is 
itself  burdensome  to  the  House.  There  are  now  more  than  half 
as  many  committees  in  the  House  as  there  are  members  of  the 
Senate.  It  cannot  itself  choose  so  many  committees ;  it  cannot 
even  follow  so  many.     It  therefore  entrusts  every  appointment 


THE  HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES  37 

to  the  Speaker,  and,  when  its  business  gets  entangled  amongst 
the  multitude  of  committees  and  reports,  follows  a  steering 
committee,  which  it  calls  the  Committee  on  Rules.  And  the 
power  of  appointing  the  committees,  which  the  House  has  con- 
ferred upon  its  Speaker,  makes  him  the  almost  autocratic  master 
of  its  actions. 

VI.  In  all  legislative  bodies  except  ours  the  presiding  officer 
has  only  the  powers  and  functions  of  a  chairman.  He  is  sepa- 
rate from  parties  and  is  looked  to  to  be  punctiliously  impartial. 
He  moderates  and  gives  order  to  the  course  of  debate,  and  is  ex- 
pected to  administer  without  personal  or  party  bias  the  accepted 
rules  of  its  procedure.  For  political  guidance  all  other  rep- 
resentative assemblies  depend  on  the  Government,  not  upon 
committees  which  their  presiding  officer  has  created.  But  the 
processes  of  our  parliamentary  development  have  made  the 
Speaker  of  our  great  House  of  Representatives  and  the  Speakers 
of  our  State  Legislatures  party  leaders  in  whom  centres  the  con- 
trol of  all  that  they  do.  So  far  as  the  House  of  Representatives 
and  its  share  in  the  public  business  is  concerned,  the  Speaker 
is  undisputed  party  leader. 

VI  A,  B,  C.  Every  one  of  the  committees  of  the  House  the 
Speaker  appoints.  He  not  only  allows  himself  to  make  them  up 
with  a  view  to  the  kind  of  legislation  he  wishes  to  see  enacted ;  he 
is  expected  to  make  them  up  with  such  a  view,  —  is  expected  to 
make  them  up  as  a  party  leader  would.  He  is,  it  is  true,  a  good 
deal  hampered  in  the  exercise  of  a  free  choice  in  their  make-up  by 
certain  well-established  understandings  and  precedents,  of  whose 
breach  the  older  members  of  the  House  at  any  rate  would  be 
very  jealous.  Seniority  of  service  has  to  be  respected  in  assign- 
ing places  on  the  more  important  committees,  and  the  succession 
to  certain  of  the  chief  chairmanships  is  well  understood  to  go  by 
definite  rules  of  individual  preference  and  personal  consideration. 
But  it  is  always  possible  for  the  Speaker  to  determine  the  majority 
of  his  appointments  in  such  a  way  as  to  give  him  that  direct 
and  continuing  control  of  the  actions  of  the  House  which  he  is 
now  expected  to  exercise  as  the  party  leader  of  the  majority. 
Even  his  own  personal  views  upon  particular  public  cjuestions 


^S       r.\l'I.A.\ATIO.\S  OF   Ml-CllAMS.US   AM)   /'/^0C/vV5/s6' 

lu'  dot's  iu)t  iKsitalc  to  enforce  in  his  ai)iH)intmcnts,  so  thai  the 
very  majority  he  represents  may  be  j)revente{l  from  ha\inj^  an 
o|)j)ortunity  to  vote  upon  measures  it  is  known  to  desire  because 
he  has  niaile  up  the  committees  which  w^ould  report  upon  them 
in  accordance  with  his  own  preferences  in  the  matter.  What 
the  committees  do  uol  report  the  House  cannot  vote  upon. 
Every  bill  that  is  introduced  is  assigned  to  a  committee  picked 
out  by  the  Speaker's  order,  if  there  be  any  doubt  about  its 
character  or  reference.  It  is  the  Speaker's  decision,  also,  that 
assigns  the  reports  of  the  committees  to  the  several  calendars 
upon  which  the  business  of  the  House  is  allotted  its  time  for 
consideration,  and  he  may  often  choose  whether  the  place  al- 
lotted them  shall  be  favorable  or  unfavorable,  shall  make  it 
likely  or  unlikely  that  they  will  be  reached  at  all. 

VI D.  Moreover,  it  has  come  about  that  by  means  of  his  pre- 
rogative of  "recognition"  the  Speaker  is  permitted  to  control  de- 
bate to  a  very  extraordinary  degree.  It  is  common  parliamentary 
practice  that  no  one  can  address  an  assembly  until  "recognized," 
that  is,  accorded  the  floor,  by  the  presiding  officer.  The  House 
of  Representatives,  feeling  always  pressed  for  time,  even  with 
regard  to  the  consideration  of  the  reports  of  its  standing  com- 
mittees, which  are  numerous  and  amazingly  active,  restricts 
debate  upon  those  reports  within  very  narrow  limits,  and 
generally  allots  the  greater  part  of  the  brief  time  allowed  to  any 
one  report  to  the  chairman  of  the  reporting  committee.  Other 
members  may  get  a  few  minutes  of  time  allowed  them  by  pre- 
\'ious  arrangement  with  the  committee's  chairman,  and  a  list 
of  those  who  are  thus  to  be  given  an  opportunity  to  speak 
generally  lies  on  the  Speaker's  desk.  These  members  the 
Speaker  will  "recognize,"  but  no  others,  though  they  spring 
to  their  feet  under  his  very  nose  in  the  open  space  in  front  of 
the  seats,  —  unless,  indeed,  they  have  seen  him  beforehand  and 
got  his  permission.  No  member  who  has  not  previously  ar- 
ranged the  matter,  either  with  the  chairman  of  the  committee 
or  with  the  Speaker,  need  rise  or  seek  to  catch  the  Speaker's 
eye.  And  in  the  intervals  of  calendar  business  no  one  whose 
intention  the  Speaker  has  not  been  apprised  of,  unless  indeed 


THt;  tlOUSK  OF  REPRESENTATIVES  39 

it  be  the  leader  on  the  floor  of  the  one  party  or  the  other,  may 
expect  to  be  accorded  the  floor  to  make  a  motion.  The  Speaker 
may,  if  he  choose,  determine  what  proposals  he  will  permit 
the  House  to  hear. 

VI E,  The  Committee  on  Rules  has  of  recent  years  had  a  very 
singular  and  significant  development  of  functions.  Originally  its 
duty  was  a  very  simple  one :  that  of  reporting  to  the  House  at 
the  opening  of  each  of  its  biennial  sessions,  when  a  new  House 
assembles  and  a  new  organization  is  effected,  the  body  of  stand- 
ing rules  under  which  it  was  to  act ;  for  the  House  goes  through 
the  form  of  readopting  its  whole  body  of  rules  each  time  it  re- 
organizes after  fresh  congressional  elections.  From  session 
to  session  the  rules  were  modified,  now  in  one  particular,  again 
in  another,  on  the  recommendation  of  the  committee ;  and  any 
change  in  the  rules  at  any  time  proposed  is  still  referred  to  it 
for  consideration  and  report.  But  now  the  committee  is  looked 
to,  besides,  for  such  temporary  orders  and  programs  of  procedure 
as  will  enable  the  House  to  disentangle  its  business  and  get 
at  the  measures  which  the  country  expects  it  to  dispose  of  or 
the  needs  of  the  Government  make  it  necessary  that  it  should 
not  neglect.  The  party  majority  is  well  aware  that,  if  it  would 
keep  its  credit  with  the  constituencies,  it  must  not  allow  the 
miscellany  of  committee  reports  on  its  crowded  calendars  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  matters  which  it  is  pledged  to  act  upon. 
It  looks  to  the  Committee  on  Rules  to  sweep  aside  the  ordinary 
rules  of  procedure  whenever  necessary,  and  bring  in  a  schedule 
of  action  which  will  enable  it  to  get  at  the  main  things  it  is  inter- 
ested in,  or  at  any  rate  the  things  the  party  leaders  think  it 
most  expedient  it  should  dispose  of.  The  committee  has  thus 
become  a  very  important  part  of  party  machinery.  It  consists 
of  five  members,  the  Speaker  himself,  two  other  representatives 
of  the  majority,  and  two  representatives  of  the  minority.  The 
majority  members  of  course  control  its  action ;  the  representa- 
tion of  the  minority  is  hardly  more  than  formal ;  and  the  two 
members  of  the  majority  associated  with  the  Speaker  upon  it 
are  usually  trusted  lieutenants  upon  whom  he  can  count  for 
loyal   support  of  his  leadership.     One  self-confident   Speaker 


40 


i:.\rLA\.ir/o\s  of  mixhamsms  .iat)  pkoci-:ssj-:s 


smilin«ily  described  the  committee  as  consisting  of  the  Speaker 
and  two  assistants,  —  a  pleasant  way  of  saying  that  the  com- 
mittee was  his  instrument  to  govern  the  House.  His  direct 
control  of  the  Committee  on  Rules  rounds  out  his  powers  as  an 
autocrat  of  the  popular  chamber. 

VII  A.  .And  yet  the  word  autocrat  has  really  no  jilace  in  our 
political  vocabulary,  if  we  are  to  use  words  of  reality  and  not 
words  of  extravagance.  The  extniordinary  jiower  of  the  Speaker 
is  not  personal.  He  is  in  no  proper  sense  of  the  word  an  auto- 
crat. He  is  the  instrument,  as  well  as  the  leader,  of  the  ma- 
jority in  controlling  the  processes  of  the  House.  He  is  obeyed 
because  the  majority  chooses  to  be  governed  thus.  The  rules 
are  of  its  own  making,  and  it  can  unmake  them  when  it  pleases. 
It  can  override  the  Speaker's  decisions,  too,  and  correct  its  pre- 
siding oflScer  as  every  other  assembly  can.  It  has  simply  found 
it  most  convenient  to  put  itself  in  the  Speaker's  hands,  its  ob- 
ject being  efliciency,  not  debate. 

VII B.  And  yet  it  is  also  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  House 
bills  go  through  as  the  committees  propose,  practically  without 
debate.  Some  measures  it  is  clearly  in  the  interest  of  the 
party  no  less  than  of  the  public  to  discuss  with  some  fulness. 
Many  financial  measures  in  particular  are  debated  with  a  good 
deal  of  thoroughness,  and  most  matters  that  have  already 
attracted  public  attention.  Not  everything  is  left  to  the  oper- 
ation of  the  rules,  the  chances  of  the  calendar,  and  the  dicta- 
tion of  the  Speaker  and  his  two  assistants.  The  Committee 
on  Rules  may  be  counted  on  to  arrange  for  debates  upon  the 
important  bills  as  w^ell  as  for  putting  unimportant  bills  out  of 
the  way. 

Vni.  And  standing  o\'er  all  is  the  party  caucus,  the  outside 
conference  of  the  members  of  the  majority,  to  whose  conclusions 
the  Speaker  himself  is  subject,  and  to  which  members  can  appeal 
whenever  they  think  the  Speaker  too  irresponsible,  too  arbitrary, 
too  masterful,  too  little  heedful  of  the  opinions  prevalent  on  the 
floor  among  the  rank  and  file.  The  caucus  is  an  established  and 
much  respected  piece  of  party  machinery,  and  what  the  party 
has  not  the  organization  to  decide  on  the  floor  of  the  assembly 


THE  HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES  41 

itself  it  decides  in  this  conference  outside  the  House.  Members 
who  do  not  wish  to  be  bound  by  decisions  of  the  caucus  can 
refuse  to  attend  it;  but  that  is  a  very  serious  breach  of  party 
discipline  and  may  get  the  men  who  venture  upon  it  the  unpleas- 
ant reputation  of  disloyalty.  Members  who  wish  to  maintain 
their  standing  in  the  party  are  expected  to  attend ;  and  those 
who  attend  are  expected  to  abide  by  the  decisions  of  the  con- 
ference. It  is  a  thoroughgoing  means  of  maintaining  party 
unity.  Caucuses  are  free  conferences,  where  a  man  may  say 
what  he  pleases ;  but  they  are  held  behind  closed  doors,  and  it  is 
usually  made  a  matter  of  honorable  punctilio  not  to  speak  out- 
side of  the  dissensions  their  debates  may  have  disclosed. 

IX.  It  is  thus  that  the  House  has  made  itself  "efficient."  Its 
ideal  is  the  transaction  of  business.  It  is  as  much  afraid  of  be- 
coming a  talking  shop  as  Mr.  Carlyle  could  have  wished  it  to  be. 
If  it  must  talk,  it  talks  in  sections,  in  its  committee  rooms,  not 
in  public  on  the  floor  of  the  chamber  itself.  The  Committee 
rooms  are  private.  No  one  has  the  right  to  enter  them  except 
by  express  permission  of  the  committees  themselves.  Not  in- 
frequently committees  do  hold  formal  public  hearings  with 
regard  to  certain  bills,  inviting  all  whose  interests  are  affected 
to  be  represented  and  present  their  views  either  for  or  against 
the  proposed  legislation.  But  such  hearings  are  recognized  as 
exceptional,  not  of  right,  and  as  a  rule  the  public  hears  nothing 
of  the  arguments  which  have  induced  any  committee  to  make 
its  particular  recommendations  to  the  House.  The  formal  ex- 
planations of  the  chairman  of  a  committee,  made  upon  the  floor 
of  the  House,  contain  few  of  the  elements  of  contested  opinion 
which  undoubtedly  showed  themselves  plainly  enough  in  the 
private  conference  of  the  committee. 

X.  For  each  committee  is  a  miniature  House.  The  minority 
is  accorded  representation  upon  it  in  proportion  to  its  numerical 
strength  in  the  House.  In  every  committee,  therefore,  there  are 
men  representing  both  party  views,  and  it  sometimes  happens 
that  the  arguments  of  the  minority  members  are  very  influential 
in  shaping  reports  made  upon  measures  concerning  which  no 
sharp  party  lines  have  been  drawn.     With  regard  to  matters 


42       EXPLAXATIONS  OF  AfECIIAMSAfS  AND  PROCESSES 

ujx)n  whidi  llic  niajDrity  is  known  to  have  taken  a  definite  jjosi- 
lion  before  the  constituencies  the  majority  memijers  of  a  com- 
mittee will  of  course  insist  upon  having  their  own  way.  They 
are  apt  to  be  in  frequent  consultation  with  the  Speaker  about 
thcni.  But  with  regard  to  measures  on  which  no  party  issue  has 
been  made  up  they  are  willing  on  occasion  to  give  a  good  deal 
of  weight  to  the  opinions  of  their  minority  colleagues.  There 
is  a  \ery  easy  and  amicable  relation  between  majority  and 
minority  in  the  committees,  and  it  will  often  happen  that 
in  committees  which  have  to  deal  with  highly  technical  matters, 
like  manufactures  or  banking  or  naval  construction  or  the 
regulation  of  judicial  procedure,  or  with  matters  inv^olved  in 
precedent  and  to  be  understood  only  in  the  light  of  somewhat 
extended  and  intimate  experience,  like  foreign  affairs,  members 
of  the  minority  of  long  service  in  the  House  and  of  long 
familiarity  with  the  subject-matter  under  discussion  will  in 
fact  in  no  small  degree  guide  and  dominate  the  committees  to 
which  they  have  been  assigned.  Business  is  more  like  business, 
because  less  formal  and  less  touched  with  party  feeling  in  the 
committee  rooms  than  on  the  floor  of  the  House. 

XI.  The  minority  has  its  own  party  organization  like  that  of 
the  majority :  its  formally  chosen  leader  for  the  floor,  its  caucus 
to  secure  common  counsel.  It  is,  indeed,  usually  less  thoroughly 
disciplined  than  the  majority,  because  it  is  in  opposition,  not 
in  power,  and  can  afTord  to  allow  its  members  freer  play  in  choos- 
ing what  they  shall  individually  do  and  say.  But  its  organiza- 
tion suffices  to  draw  its  forces  together  for  common  action  when 
any  matter  of  real  party  significance  comes  to  the  surface  and 
the  country  expects  it  to  put  itself  on  record ;  and  it  is  ready, 
at  very  short  notice,  to  turn  itself  into  an  organization  as  com- 
plete and  powerful  as  that  of  the  majority,  should  the  elections 
favor  it  and  its  leader  become  Speaker. 

XII.  All  lines  of  analysis  come  back  to  the  Speaker,  whether 
you  speak  of  the  organization  or  of  the  action  and  political  power 
of  the  House.  Such  an  organization,  so  systematized  and  so  con- 
centrated, has  of  course  made  the  House  of  Representatives  one 
of  the  most  powerful  pieces  of  our  whole  governmental  machinery. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTATIVES  43 

and  its  Speaker,  in  whom  its  power  is  centred  and  summed  up, 
has  come  to  be  regarded  as  the  greatest  figure  in  our  complex 
system,  next  to  the  President  himself.  The  whole  powerful 
machinery  of  the  great  popular  chamber  is  at  his  disposal, 
and  all  the  country  knows  how  effectually  he  can  use  it.  What- 
ever may  be  the  influence  and  importance  of  the  Senate,  its 
energies  are  not  centred  in  any  one  man.  There  is  no  senator 
who  sums  up  in  himself  the  power  of  a  great  organ  of  govern- 
ment. The  leaders  of  the  Senate  deal  in  ail  counsel  with  the 
other  chamber  with  regard  to  legislative  business  with  this 
single  leader,  this  impersonation  of  the  House.  So  do  also  the 
President  and  the  members  of  the  cabinet.  As  national  leader 
of  his  party,  the  President  must  reckon  always  with  the  guide 
and  master  of  the  House,  without  whose  approval  and  consent  it 
is  practically  impossible  to  get  any  legislative  measure  adopted. 
Measures  which  are  to  prosper  must  have  his  countenance  and 
support.  Members  of  the  cabinet  must  study  his  views  and 
purposes,  if  they  are  to  obtain  the  appropriations  they  desire 
or  to  see  measures  brought  to  a  happy  and  successful  issue  which 
they  deem  necessary  to  the  administration  of  their  departments. 
One  might  sum  up  the  active  elements  of  our  government  as 
consisting  of  the  President,  with  all  his  sweep  of  powers ;  the 
Speaker  of  the  House,  with  all  that  he  represents  as  spokesman 
of  the  party  majority  in  the  popular  chamber,  with  its  singularly 
effective  machinery  at  his  disposal ;  and  the  talkative,  debating 
Senate,  guided  no  doubt  by  a  few  influential  and  trusted  mem- 
bers, but  a  council,  not  an  organization. 


MINE-HELMETS 


Joseph  Husband 


The  gases  which  filled  the  mine  consisted  principally  of  carbon 
monoxide,  or  white-damp,  and  carbon  dioxide,  or  black-damp, 
with  a  small    additional  percentage  of    other  gases.     White- 

'  From  A  Year  in  a  Coal  Mine.  Houghton  Mifflin  &  Company,  191 2.  Re- 
printed by  permission. 


44       r.Xri.AXATIO.XS  Ol    SflXllASISMS   A\n   PROCESSES 

damp  is  the  gas  most  feared  by  the  miners,  for  its  properties 
render  it  difticult  to  detect,  inasmuch  as  it  is  tasteless,  odorless, 
and  colorless,  and  when  mixed  in  the  proportion  of  about  one 
part  gas  to  nine  parts  air  is  called  "lire-damp,"  and  becomes 
explosive  to  a  degree  hard  to  realize  unless  one  has  seen  its  ef- 
fects. Black-damp,  unlike  white-damp,  is  heavier  than  air: 
a  non-explosive  gas  which  may  be  detected  by  its  peculiar  odor. 
Again,  unlike  the  other,  its  clTect  is  to  sulTocate  and  extinguish 
fire.  This  gas  is  so  heaxy  and  mo\es  with  such  a  sluggish  liow 
that,  occasionally,  when  miners  have  been  trai)pcd  in  a  mine 
following  an  explosion  and  have  detected  the  black-damp  creep- 
ing in  upon  them  by  its  smell,  they  have  been  able  to  stop  its 
advance  by  erecting  dams  or  barricades  along  the  floor,  building 
them  liigher  as  the  volume  of  gas  increased,  and  keeping  the 
air  within  their  little  enclosure  comparatively  clear  by  rude 
impro\ised  fans.  Following  an  explosion,  these  two  gases  be- 
come mingled  and  form  a  mixed  gas  possessing  all  the  dreaded 
qualities  of  each,  which  is  known  as  "  after-damp,"  and  it  is  this 
mixture  of  gases  which  destroys  any  life  that  may  remain  follow- 
ing a  mine  disaster. 

To  contend  with  these  almost  impossible  conditions,  it  was 
determined  to  make  the  descent  equipped  with  air-tight  helmets, 
somewhat  resembling  in  ai)pearance  those  used  by  deep-sea 
divers.  This  ingenious  device,  which  enables  a  man  to  exist 
under  such  conditions  and  to  conduct  investigations  for  a  period 
of  two  hours,  consists  of  a  steel  headpiece  completely  covering 
the  fore  part  of  the  head  and  leaving  the  ears  exposed,  made 
air-tight  by  means  of  a  pneumatic  washer  which  passes  in  a 
circle  around  the  top  of  the  head  and  dow^n  each  side  of  the  face 
in  front  of  the  ears,  connecting  under  the  chin.  This  washer 
is  inflated  as  soon  as  the  helmet  is  adjusted,  and  pressing  out 
closely  against  the  steel  shell  of  the  helmet  on  one  side,  conforms 
closely  to  the  contours  of  the  head  on  the  other,  leaving  the 
ears  exposed.  In  the  front  of  each  helmet  is  a  round  bull's-eye 
of  heavy  mica,  protected  by  steel  rods;  and  below  the  bull's- 
eye,  an  inch  below  the  mouth,  is  the  main  valve  which  is  closed 
immediately  before  the  man  enters  the  poisoned  atmosphere. 


MINE-HELMETS  45. 

From  the  helmet,  m  front,  hangs  a  pair  of  false  lungs,  or  large 
rubber  sacks,  protected  by  a  leather  apron;  and  on  the  back, 
held  by  straps  over  the  shoulders  and  supported  by  plates  fitting 
closely  to  the  small  of  the  back,  hangs  a  heavy  knapsack  weigh- 
ing about  forty  pounds.  This  knapsack  consists  of  two  steel 
cylinders,  each  one  containing  pure  oxygen  compressed  to  one 
hundred  and  thirty  atmospheres,  sufficient  to  support  life  for 
one  hour,  the  two  together  being  sufficient  for  two  hours.  Above 
the  oxygen  cylinders  are  two  cartridges,  or  cans,  containing  loose 
crystals  of  hydrate  of  potassium  sufficient  to  absorb  two  hours' 
exhalation  of  carbonic  acid  gas.  With  the  helmet  these  car- 
tridges and  the  oxygen  cylinders  are  connected  in  a  continuous 
circuit,  and  as  soon  as  the  oxygen  is  turned  on  there  is  a  flow  up 
from  the  oxygen  cylinders  by  a  tube  under  the  right  arm  to  the 
helmet,  and  down  under  the  left  arm  to  the  cartridges,  and 
through  them  again  to  the  tube  at  the  oxygen  valve. 

Upon  adjusting  the  helmet,  the  wearer  takes  several  large 
breaths  of  pure  air,  which  he  exhales  into  the  false  lungs  on  his 
chest,  and  immediately  shuts  the  mouth  valve.  At  the  same  in- 
stant, with  his  right  hand  behind  his  back,  he  turns  on  the  oxygen, 
and  this,  regulated  by  valves  to  an  even  feed  to  last  for  exactly 
two  hours,  forces  itself  up  the  tube  into  the  helmet,  and  by  its 
pressure  and  reverse  suction,  draws  down  through  the  other  tube 
and  through  the  cans  of  potassium  hydrate  the  exhaled  breath. 
Air  being  a  mixture  of  pure  nitrogen  and  pure  oxygen,  the  oxy- 
gen cylinders  furnish  one  necessary  element.  The  second  —  the 
nitrogen  —  already  exists  in  the  several  breaths  that  the  man 
has  taken  into  the  false  lungs,  for  the  nitrogen  atoms  are  in- 
destructible, and,  mixed  with  oxygen,  can  be  used  indefinitely. 
Passing  through  the  potassium-hydrate  cylinders,  the  carbonic 
acid  gas  is  entirely  absorbed,  leaving  the  free  nitrogen  atoms 
to  unite  with  the  oxygen  below ;  and  so  for  two  hours,  a  steady 
stream  of  air  passes  up  through  the  right-hand  tube,  and  for 
two  hours  the  cans  of  potassium  hydrate  absorb  the  impurities 
exhaled,  and  pass  on  the  nitrogen  atoms  to  unite  with  the  fresh 
oxygen  ever  flowing  up  from  the  cylinders. 

In  order  that  the  helmet-men  might  keep  exact  account  of  the 


46     KxrLAy.iTioss  or  .\n:ciiA.\/s.\fs  axd  processes 

amount  of  oxyjion  used,  thcrt'  was  a  clock  fastened  to  the  knaj)- 
sack.  When  the  helmet  was  adjusted  and  the  oxygen  turned 
on,  the  hand  of  the  clock  pointed  to  two  hours,  and  as  the  pres- 
sure in  the  cylinders  was  reduced,  the  hand  slid  back  to  one 
hour,  thirty  minutes,  fifteen,  and  finally  zero,  when  it  would 
be  necessary  to  open  the  valves  and  breathe  the  outer  air  tjr 
suffocate.  We  could  not  see  the  clocks  on  our  own  knapsacks, 
as  they  were  behind  our  backs,  and  so  every  fifteen  minutes  or 
so  we  would  gather  in  the  gas-filled  tunnels,  and  with  our 
electric  torches  read  the  minutes  remaining  on  each  other's 
clocks.  Thirty  minutes  left  meant  a  start  for  top,  even  if  we 
were  near  the  hoist.  We  could  take  no  chances.  Unconscious 
men  are  hard  to  move,  especially  when  one's  own  air  has  almost 
gone. 

A  MECHANICAL  DISH-WASHERS 

A  SIMPLE  tjpe  of  dish-washing  machine  has  been  invented  and 
placed  on  the  market.  This  machine  consists  of  a  cylindrical 
metal  tank  finished  in  aluminum  and  mounted  on  four  stout 
legs  with  casters  to  permit  easy  rolling  about  the  kitchen  or 
from  kitchen  to  china  closet.  A  pump  placed  in  the  centre  of 
the  tank,  and  operated  by  the  lever  at  the  top  of  the  machine, 
works  in  such  a  way  as  to  throw  the  hot  water  in  a  strong  stream 
against  and  among  the  dishes.  China  is  placed  at  the  bottom 
of  the  tank,  all  pieces  being  turned  toward  the  centre  and  ar- 
ranged to  drain  easily,  while  glass  and  sih'erware  are  placed  in  a 
wire  basket  near  the  top  of  the  tank.  After  all  pieces  are  in 
place,  boiling  water  is  poured  into  the  tank  and  sprinkled  with 
soap  powder,  the  lid  is  closed,  and  the  pump  handle  is  worked 
for  one  or  two  minutes.  The  suds  are  then  drawn  off  through 
a  faucet  at  the  bottom,  scalding  rinse  water  is  poured  into  the 
tank,  and  the  pumping  operation  is  repeated.  The  dishes  are 
sterilized  by  the  hot  water  and  are  so  hot  when  they  come  from 
the  machine  that  they  dry  quickly. 

'  From  Popular  Mechanics,  October,  1913. 


HOW   THE  PANAMA    LOCKS  ARE  OPERATED  47 

HOW  THE  PANAMA  LOCKS  ARE  OPERATED  ^ 

The  mechanism  which  will  operate  the  ponderous  locks  at 
Gatun,  Miraflores,  and  Pedro  Miguel  in  the  Panama  Canal  is 
quite  unlike  anything  used  elsewhere  in  the  world.  Heretofore 
it  has  been  the  practice  to  distribute  a  large  operating  force 
practically  along  the  full  length  of  the  locks  in  a  canal.  Such 
a  force  is  difficult  to  coordinate  into  an  efficient  operating  system. 
Moreover,  the  great  size  of  the  Panama  locks  made  it  highly 
desirable  that  all  operations  should  be  centralized.  The  fUght 
of  locks  at  Gatun,  for  example,  extends  over  a  distance  of  six 
thousand  one  hundred  and  fifty-two  feet,  and  the  principal 
operating  machines  are  distributed  over  a  distance  of  four 
thousand  one  hundred  and  fifteen  feet. 

The  Isthmian  Canal  Commission  decided  that  the  locks  must 
be  electrically  controlled  from  some  central  station  in  each 
case,  because  thus  the  number  of  operators,  the  operating  ex- 
pense, and  the  liability  to  accident  could  be  reduced.  Great 
electrical  control-boards  have  therefore  been  especially  invented 
which  are  installed  at  Gatun,  Miraflores,  and  Pedro  Miguel  — 
control-boards  which  are  so  ingeniously  conceived  and  con- 
structed that  a  single  man,  who  need  never  see  the  ships  which 
are  passing  through  the  canal,  opens  and  closes  lock  gates 
veighing  many  tons  and  governs  the  course  of  thousands  and 
thousands  of  gallons  of  water. 

Before  we  can  understand  how  this  is  done,  we  must  explain 
how  the  locks  themselves  are  constructed  and  what  is  the  char- 
acter of  the  lock  machinery  to  be  controlled.  The  lock  cham- 
bers are  one  thousand  feet  long.  At  each  end  of  a  lock  chamber, 
so-called  mitering  gates  are  to  be  found,  which  consist  of  two 
massive  leaves  pivoted  on  the  lock  walls  and  operating  in- 
dependently of  each  other.  Immediately  beyond  each  pair 
of  mitering  gates  at  each  end  of  a  lock  chamber  a  duplicate 
pair  of  mitering  gates  is  to  be  found.  These  are  guard  gates. 
Lastly,  still  other  mitering  gates  open  and  close  within  the  lock 

1  From  Scientific  American,  March  7,  1914.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


48     r.xrLA.\ATio.\s  or  mkchamsms  a.\d  i-rucesses 

chamber  itself.  These,  which  are  called  intermediate  miterinj; 
gates,  are  used  to  divide  the  one-thousand-foot  locks  into  smalK  r 
compartments  when  vessels  of  short  length  are  to  be  handled. 
Thus,  much  water  is  saved.  All  the  mitering  gates,  when  closed, 
are  clamped  tightly  together  by  a  device  called  a  miter  forcing 
machine. 

In  front  of  all  the  mitering  gates  which  are  exposed  to  the 
upper  lock  level  and  also  in  front  of  the  guard  gates  at  the  lower 
end  are  chain  fenders.  These  chains  are  taut  when  the  gates 
behind  are  closed  and  are  lowered  when  the  gates  are  opened  for 
the  passing  of  a  ship.  The  chains  are  raised  and  lowered  by  a 
method  similar  to  that  followed  in  hydraulic  elevators,  with  the 
additional  feature  that  if  a  ship  approaches  the  gate  at  a  dan- 
gerous speed  and  runs  into  the  chains,  the  chain  is  paid  out  in 
such  a  way  as  to  stop  the  ship  gradually  before  it  reaches  the 
gates.  Two  motors  lower  the  chains  for  the  passage  of  a  vessel 
and  raise  it  again  after  the  vessel  has  passed.  One  motor 
driv-es  the  main  pump  supply  water  under  pressure,  and  the  other 
operates  a  valve  which  controls  the  direction  of  movement  of 
the  chain.  These  two  operations  are  combined  in  one,  each 
motor  being  stopped  automatically  by  a  limit  switch  when  the 
motor  has  performed  its  function. 

The  locks  are  filled  and  emptied  by  three  culverts,  one  in  the 
middle  wall  and  one  in  each  side  wall.  The  flow  of  water  is  con- 
trolled by  what  are  known  as  rising  stem  valves.  These  valves 
are  located  in  the  culverts  at  points  opposite  each  end  of  each 
lock,  so  that  the  culvert  can  be  shut  off  at  any  desired  point  for 
filling  a  lock  with  water  from  above,  or  upstream,  or  for  empty- 
ing it  by  allowing  it  to  flow  out  and  down  to  the  ne.xt  lock. 
Lateral  culverts  conduct  the  water  from  the  main  culverts  under 
the  lock  chambers  and  up  through  openings  in  the  lock  floors. 

The  rising  stem  valves  are  installed  in  pairs,  and  each  pair  is 
a  duplicate.  Moreover,  each  culvert  is  divided  into  two  par- 
allel halves  at  these  valves  by  a  vertical  wall.  This  arrange- 
ment reduces  the  size  of  each  valve,  so  that  it  may  be  more 
easily  operated.  Even  then,  each  valve  measures  eight  by 
eighteen  feet  and  is  raised  and  lowered  by  a  forty  horse-power 


HOW   THE  PANAMA    LOCKS  ARE  OPERATED  49 

motor  requiring  one  minute  for  complete  closing.  One  pair  of 
duplicates  is  left  open  as  a  guard  or  reverse  pair ;  the  other  pair 
is  used  for  operating,  so  that  in  case  of  an  obstruction  in  the 
culvert  or  of  an  accident  to  the  machinery,  the  duplicate  pair 
can  be  used. 

At  the  upper  ends  of  the  culverts  at  the  side  walls,  the  du- 
plication is  accomplished  by  three  valves  in  parallel,  called  the 
guard  valves.  Their  service  is  exactly  similar  to  that  of  the 
rising  stem  valves,  except  that  three  valves  in  parallel  in  this 
case  must  conform  with  the  same  laws  as  the  two  in  parallel 
in  the  other  case. 

The  culvert  in  the  middle  wall  must  serve  the  locks  on  both 
sides,  and  to  control  this  feature  cylindrical  valves  are  placed  in 
the  lateral  culverts  that  branch  out  on  each  side.  There  are 
ten  of  these  on  each  side  of  the  culvert  at  each  lock. 

At  the  upper  end  of  each  set  of  locks  there  are  two  valves  in 
the  side  walls  for  regulating  the  height  of  water  between  the 
upper  gates  and  upper  guard  gates,  as  it  is  desired  to  maintain 
the  level  of  the  water  between  these  gates  at  an  elevation  in- 
termediate between  that  of  the  lake  above  and  that  of  the 
upper  lock  when  the  upper  lock  is  not  at  the  same  level  as  the 
lakes.     These  valves  are  called  the  auxiliary  culvert  valves. 

To  give  an  idea  of  the  number  and  sizes  of  the  motors  to  be 
controlled  in  operating  the  lock  machinery  it  may  be  mentioned 
that  each  miter  gate  leaf  is  moved  by  a  twenty-five  horse-power 
motor.  There  are  forty  such  motors  at  Gatun,  twenty-four 
at  Pedro  Miguel,  twenty-eight  at  Miraflores,  a  total  of  ninety- 
two,  with  an  aggregate  horse-power  of  twenty-three  hundred. 
Each  miter-gate  forcing  machine  is  worked  by  a  seven  horse- 
power motor.  Of  these  motors  there  are  twenty  at  Gatun, 
twelve  at  Pedro  Miguel,  fourteen  at  Miraflores,  —  a  total  of  forty- 
six,  with  an  aggregate  horse-power  of  three  hundred  and  twenty- 
two.  So,  at  Gatun,  Pedro  Miguel,  and  Miraflores  there  are  in 
all  forty-eight  motors  of  seventy  horse-power  ea';h,  which  work 
the  main  pumps  of  the  fender  chains  and  which  have  an  ag- 
gregate horse-power  of  thirty-three  hundred  and  sixty ;  forty- 
eight  motors  of  one-half  horse-power  each  for  operating  the 


50      F.XPL.l.\ATro\S  OF   \rECIIANISMS  AND  PROCESSES 

valves  of  the  various  fender  chains  and  which  have  an  aggregate 
horse-power  of  twenty-four ;  one  hundred  and  sixteen  motors 
of  forty  horse-jK)wer  each  which  operate  the  rising  stem  gate 
valves;  one  hundred  antl  twenty  motors  of  seven  horse-power 
each  which  operate  the  cylindrical  valves;  eighteen  motors  of 
twenty-five  horse-power  each,  which  operate  the  guard  valves ; 
and  twelve  motors  of  seven  horse-power  each  which  operate  the 
auxiliary  culvert  valves.  Hence,  there  arc  five  hundred  motors 
of  various  kinds  at  Gatun,  Pedro  Miguel,  and  Miraflores,  with 
an  aggregate  horse-power  of  twelve  thousand  and  twenty  to  be 
controlled. 

The  electrical  control  boards  which  control  all  these  many 
motors,  valves,  and  pumps  were  designed  and  built  at  .Schenec- 
tady, New  ^'ork,  from  specifications  prepared  under  the  super- 
vision of  Mr.  Edward  Schildhauer,  electrical  and  mechanical 
engineer  of  the  Isthmian  Canal  Commission,  ably  assisted  by 
Engineers  C.  B.  Larzelere,  W.  R.  McCann,  and  others,  and  will 
long  be  used  as  models  of  skilled  and  painstaking  engineering, 
in  which  every  contingency  was  foreseen  and  all  the  safeguards 
installed  that  expert  engineers  could  suggest. 

The  control  boards  for  each  lock  are  to  be  found  in  control 
houses  located  on  the  middle  walls  at  points  which  afford  the 
best  vnew  of  the  locks,  although  this  view  is  not  depended  upon 
to  know  the  position  of  the  gates  or  other  apparatus.  They 
are  flat  benches  thirty-two  inches  high  by  fifty-four  inches  wide, 
built  in  sections.  The  board  at  Gatun  is  sixty-four  feet  long; 
that  at  Pedro  Miguel,  thirty-six  feet  long ;  and  that  at  Mira- 
flores, fifty-two  feet  long.  The  control  boards  are  approximately 
operating  miniatures  of  the  locks  themselves.  They  have  in- 
dicating de\'ices  which  always  show  the  exact  position  of  valves, 
lock  gates,  chains,  and  water  levels  in  the  various  lock  chambers, 
and,  so  far  as  is  necessary,  are  synchronous  with  the  movement  of 
the  lock  machinery-.  The  side  and  center  walls  of  the  locks  are 
represented  on  the  board  by  cast-iron  plates,  and  the  water  in 
the  locks  by  blue  Vermont  marble  slabs. 

In  designing  the  indicators,  efforts  were  made  to  represent 
the  actual  machines,  the  operations  of  which  were  to  be  in- 


HOW   THE  PANAMA   LOCKS  ARE  OPERATED 


51 


dicated.  For  example,  the  chain  fender  index  consists  of  a 
small  aluminium  chain  representing  the  larger  chain  of  the  lock 
itself.  Just  as  the  large  chain  is  lowered  into  a  slot  in  the 
bottom  of  the  lock,  so  the  small  chain  is  lowered  into  a  slot  in 
the  top  of  the  board.  With  equal  fidelity  the  miter  gate  is 
reproduced.  The  miter  gate  indicator  consists  of  a  pair  of 
aluminium  leaves  or  pointers  which  represent  a  pair  of  the 
large  miter  gates  and  which  move  in  a  horizontal  plane  just 
above  the  marble  slab  representing  the  water  in  the  lock.  The 
rising  stem  valve  indicators,  however,  presented  a  more  serious 
problem,  because  the  valves  themselves  are  located  in  a  culvert 
and  the  operating  machinery  is  concealed  below  the  lock  wall ; 
yet  for  the  purpose  of  observation  it  was  necessary  that  the 
indicators  project  visibly  above  the  surface  of  the  board.  The 
rising  stem  gate  valves  of  the  locks,  it  has  been  stated,  occur  in 
pairs.  For  that  reason  the  indicators  for  these  valves  have 
likewise  been  made  in  pairs  on  the  board.  Each  of  these  in- 
dicators may  well  be  likened  to  a  miniature  elevator,  the  car 
being  used  to  indicate  the  position  of  the  valve  gates.  In  order 
that  the  indication  might  be  visible  from  various  points  up  and 
down  the  board,  a  novel  scheme  was  resorted  to.  The  under 
side  of  the  car  is  equipped  with  reflectors  so  arranged  as  to  reflect, 
parallel  to  the  surface  of  the  board,  the  light  of  several  incan- 
descent lamps  located  underneath  the  board.  This  light  is 
reflected  through  openings  in  the  indicator  facing  both  up  and 
down  the  board,  the  openings  being  closed  with  opal  glass.  The 
reflected  light  gives  a  sharp  shadow  on  the  bottom  edge  of  the 
car,  all  portions  of  the  indicator  above  this  line  being  dark  and 
all  portions  below  being  illuminated.  The  illuminated  portions 
show  how  far  the  gate  of  the  valve  is  open.  If  the  indicator  is 
dark,  the  valve  is  entirely  closed  ;  if  the  indicator  is  illuminated, 
the  valve  is  entirely  open.  The  one-quarter,  one-half,  and  three- 
quarter  positions  of  the  gate  are  indicated  by  heavy  black  lines 
on  the  glass. 

For  the  water  level  indicator,  great  accuracy  was  required. 
The  specifications  demanded  that  the  level  of  the  water  be 
indicated  to  within  five-eighths  of  an  inch  of  the  actual  level, 


52       EXPLAXATIOXS  OF  M  ECU  AS  ISMS  AND  PROCESSES 

but  the  indicators  attained  an  accuracy  sonKwhal  ;^rcater  than 
this.  The  height  of  the  water  is  indicated  by  a  rising  and  falling 
hollow  cylinder  having  pointers  which  move  over  scales.  The 
scales  arc  illuniinated  by  tungsten  lamps  located  in  both  the 
base  and  the  to])  caj)  of  the  indicator. 

The  indicators  for  the  miter  forcing  machines,  which  force 
the  end  surfaces  of  the  lock  gates  into  alignment,  are  not  op- 
erated by  means  of  position-indicator  machines.  Since  all  the 
operator  cares  to  know  about  them  is  whether  they  are  in  the 
open  or  closed  position,  they  are  operated  merely  by  control 
switches.  The  open  and  closed  positions  of  all  cylindrical  valves 
are  indicated  by  means  of  red  and  green  lamps,  the  intermediate 
positions  not  being  indicated  in  any  way  because  the  operators 
need  not  take  cognizance  of  them. 

In  order  to  make  it  necessary  for  the  operator  to  maneuver 
the  control  switch  handles  always  in  a  certain  order,  corre- 
sponding with  a  predetermined  sequence  of  operation  of  the  lock 
machinery,  and  to  prevent  the  operator  in  control  of  one  channel 
from  interfering  with  the  machinery  under  jurisdiction  of  the 
operator  controlling  the  other  channel,  an  elaborate  interlocking 
system  has  been  devised.  The  limitations  of  space  forbid  an 
elaborate  description  of  this  wonderful  interlocking  mechanism. 
The  interlocking  system  is  essentially  a  bell  crank  mechanism, 
connecting  the  shaft  of  the  control  switch  directly  to  a  movable 
horizontal  bar,  forming  one  of  many  such  bars  in  an  interlocking 
rack  below  the  control  board.  A  horizontal  connecting  rod  is 
used  between  the  cranks  on  the  control  switch  shaft  and  the 
vertical  operating  shaft.  The  interlocking  rack  consists  of  a 
rigid  frame  constructed  of  three-eighths- inch  thick  steel  and 
having  five  horizontal  members.  Upon  these  horizontal  mem- 
bers and  tying  them  together  are  located  at  convenient  inter- 
vals a  set  of  vertical  straps  of  three-eighths-inch  by  two-inch 
steel.  These  carry  the  brass  posts  that  provide  the  runways 
for  the  horizontal  and  vertical  interlocking  bars.  The  back  of 
the  steel  strap  is  grooved  and  counter-sunk  in  such  a  manner 
that  a  key  is  provided  which  prevents  turning  of  the  posts. 

The  interlocking  system  depends  mainly  on  the  action  of 


HOW   THE  PANAMA   LOCKS  ARE  OPERATED 


53 


engaging  bevel  dogs  located  on  the  horizontal  and  vertical  bars, 
the  movement  of  a  horizontal  bar  tending  to  lift  a  vertical  bar 
by  bevels  on  the  dogs.  A  horizontal  bar  cannot  be  moved  with- 
out raising  a  vertical  bar.  Thus,  if  at  any  time  a  dog  on  a 
horizontal  bar  rests  against  the  upper  end  of  a  dog  on  a  vertical 
bar,  no  movement  of  the  horizontal  bar  where  the  dog  engages 
the  vertical  bar  can  take  place,  and  the  control  handle  con- 
nected with  that  particular  horizontal  bar  is  locked.  The  inter- 
locking system  forces  the  attendant  to  operate  the  chain  fenders, 
gates,  and  valves  always  in  the  proper  sequence,  and  also  pre- 
vents him  from  operating  these  devices  in  incorrect  sequence ; 
for  instance,  opening  a  gate  when  the  chain  fender  is  not  in 
position  or  when  the  valves  are  open,  etc. 

There  is  also  an  interlocking  combination  that  is  used  in 
connection  with  the  intermediate  gates  which  divide  the  locks 
into  short  sections.  This  arrangement  is  fitted  with  a  Yale 
lock  and  key,  so  that  the  intermediate  gates  can  be  used  only 
when  the  attendant  has  unlocked  the  combination,  this  also 
being  subject  to  the  general  interlocking  system.  Certain 
valves  are  used  to  cross-fill  between  locks.  These  also  are  in- 
terlocked, so  that  they  can  be  operated  only  in  proper  order 
and  combination  to  equalize  the  water  between  a  pair  of  locks 
and  save  water  which  would  otherwise  be  wasted.  This  cross- 
filling  consists  in  allowing  water  from  one  lock,  which  is  full, 
to  flow  into  a  lock  by  its  side  in  the  other  channel  until  the  level 
of  the  water  is  the  same  in  both  locks,  thus  using  a  portion  of 
the  water  over  again. 

The  fact  that  the  control  board  is  a  working  miniature  of  the 
lock  which  it  operates  shows  the  operator  the  actual  condition 
of  gates,  height  of  water,  etc.,  and,  consequently,  having  the 
whole  condition  in  miniature  under  his  eye,  he  knows  what  to 
do  next  and  when  to  do  it.  The  operator  receives  his  informa- 
tion as  to  the  movement  of  the  vessel  from  a  towing  master. 

Let  us  now  take  a  vessel  through  a  set  of  locks.  It  proceeds 
into  the  lock  forebay  either  under  its  own  power  or  that  of  a 
tug,  and  comes  to  a  full  stop.  It  then  proceeds  under  the  power 
and  control  of  four  electric  locomotives  —  two  forward  to  take 


54 


KXPLAXATIOyS  01-    MIX'IIAMSMS  AXD  PROCESSES 


it  along  —  one  on  c;uh  side  —  and  two  others  astern  —  one  on 
each  side -^  to  keep  the  vessel  in  tlie  middle  of  the  waterway, 
to  stop  it  when  it  has  reached  the  proper  j)oint,  and  to  prexent 
it  from  moving  forward  too  rajiidiy. 

After  the  vessel  comes  to  a  full  stop  in  the  forebay,  its  position 
is  given  by  the  towing  master  to  the  switchboard  attendant, 
who,  by  mo\ing  a  control  switch  lever,  causes  the  lowering  of 
the  fender  chain  and  the  miniature  fender  chain  on  the  control 
board  after  the  lock  gate  is  in  the  proper  position. 

Now  the  vessel  advances  into  the  lock  by  means  of  the  elec- 
tric locomotives.  The  fender  chain  is  raised,  and  then  the  mas- 
sive gates  are  shut  behind,  the  miniature  control  board  gates  in 
the  meantime  indicating  this  mo\ement.  When  the  water  on 
opposite  sides  of  the  gates  in  front  of  the  vessel  has  been  raised  or 
lowered,  as  the  case  may  be,  until  the  water  on  both  sides  is  at 
the  same  level,  as  shown  on  the  water  level  indicators  on  the 
control  board,  these  gates  are  opened  and  the  boat  is  pulled  into 
the  next  compartment. 


I.    C.   DISCUSSIONS    OF   FACTS   AND    IDEAS 

BEGINNING  OF   CABINET   GOVERNMENT  i 

John  Richard  Green 

In  outer  seeming  the  Revolution  of  1688  had  only  transferred 
the  sovereignty  over  England  from  James  to  William  and  Mary. 
In  actual  fact  it  had  given  a  powerful  and  decisive  impulse  to 
the  great  constitutional  progress  which  was  transferring  the  sov- 
ereignty from  the  King  to  the  House  of  Commons.  From  the 
moment  when  its  sole  right  to  tax  the  nation  was  established  by 
the  Bill  of  Rights,  and  when  its  own  resolve  settled  the  practice 
of  granting  none  but  annual  supplies  to  the  Crown,  the  House 
of  Commons  became  the  supreme  power  in  the  State.  It  was 
impossible  permanently  to  suspend  its  sittings  or  in  the  long  run 
to  oppose  its  will  when  either  course  must  end  in  leaving  the 
Government  penniless,  in  breaking  up  the  army  and  navy,  and 
in  suspending  the  public  service.  But  though  the  constitutional 
change  was  complete,  the  machinery  of  government  was  far 
from  having  adapted  itself  to  the  new  conditions  of  political 
life  which  such  a  change  brought  about.  However  powerful 
the  will  of  the  House  of  Commons  might  be,  it  had  no  means 
of  bringing  its  will  directly  to  bear  upon  the  conduct  of  public 
affairs.  The  Ministers  who  had  charge  of  them  were  not  its 
servants,  but  the  servants  of  the  Crown ;  it  was  from  the  King 
that  they  looked  for  direction,  and  to  the  King  that  they  held 
themselves  responsible.  By  impeachment  or  more  indirect 
means  the  Commons  could  force  a  King  to  remove  a  Minister 
who  contradicted  their  will ;  but  they  had  no  constitutional 
power  to  replace  the  fallen  statesman  by  a  Minister  who  would 
carry  out  their  will. 

'  From  A  History  of  Ike  English  People,  Book  VIII,  Chap.  III. 
55 


56  DISCrS.SlOXS  OF   lACTS  AM)   IDIwlS 

The  result  was  the  j2;ro\vlii  of  a  temper  in  the  Lower  House 
which  (lro\e  William  and  his  Ministers  to  despair.  It  became  as 
corrupt,  as  jealous  of  power,  as  fickle  in  its  resolves  and  factious 
in  spirit  as  bodies  always  become  whose  consciousness  of  the 
possession  of  power  is  untempered  by  a  corresponding  con- 
sciousness of  the  practical  difficulties  or  the  moral  responsibilities 
of  the  power  which  they  possess.  It  grumljlcd  at  the  ill-success 
of  the  war,  at  the  suffering  of  the  merchants,  at  the  discontent 
of  the  Churchmen ;  and  it  blamed  the  Crown  and  its  Ministers 
for  all  at  which  it  grumbled.  But  it  was  hard  to  find  out  what 
policy  or  measures  it  would  have  preferred.  Its  mood  changed, 
as  Wilham  bitterly  complained,  with  every  hour.  His  own 
hold  over  it  grew  less  day  by  day.  It  was  only  through  great 
pressure  that  he  succeeded  in  defeating  by  a  majority  of  two 
a  Place  Bill  which  would  have  rendered  all  his  servants  and 
Ministers  incapable  of  sitting  in  the  Commons.  He  was 
obliged  to  use  his  veto  to  defeat  a  Triennial  Bill  which,  as  he 
believed,  would  have  destroyed  what  little  stability  of  purpose 
there  was  in  the  present  Parliament.  The  Houses  were  in  fact 
without  the  guidance  of  recognized  leaders,  without  adequate 
information,  and  destitute  of  that  organization  out  of  wliich 
alone  a  definite  policy  can  come.  Nothing  better  proves  the 
inborn  poUtical  capacity  of  the  English  mind  than  that  it  should 
at  once  have  found  a  simple  and  effective  solution  of  such  a 
difficulty  as  this.  The  credit  of  the  solution  belongs  to  a  man 
whose  political  character  was  of  the  lowest  type.  Robert, 
Earl  of  Sunderland,  had  been  a  Minister  in  the  later  days  of 
Charles  the  Second;  and  he  had  remained  Minister  through 
almost  all  the  reign  of  James.  He  had  held  office  at  last  only 
by  compUance  with  the  worst  tyranny  of  his  master  and  by  a 
feigned  conversion  to  the  Roman  Catholic  faith,  but  the  ruin 
of  James  was  no  sooner  certain  than  he  had  secured  pardon  and 
protection  from  William  by  the  betrayal  of  the  master  to  whom 
he  had  sacrificed  his  conscience  and  his  honor.  Since  the  Revo- 
lution Sunderland  had  striven  only  to  escape  public  observation 
in  a  countr}-  retirement,  h)ut  at  this  crisis  he  came  secretly  for- 
ward to  bring  his  unequalled  sagacity  to  the  aid  of  the  King. 


BEGINNING  OF  CABINET  GOVERNMENT  57 

His  counsel  was  to  recognize  practically  the  new  power  of  the 
Commons  by  choosing  the  Ministers  of  the  Crown  exclusively 
from  among  the  members  of  the  party  which  was  strongest  in 
the  Lower  House. 

As  yet  no  Ministry  in  the  modern  sense  of  the  term  had  ex- 
isted. Each  great  officer  of  State,  Treasurer  or  Secretary  or 
Lord  Privy  Seal,  had  in  theory  been  independent  of  his  fellow- 
officers;  each  was  the  "King's  servant"  and  responsible  for 
the  discharge  of  his  special  duties  to  the  King  alone.  From 
time  to  time  one  Minister,  like  Clarendon,  might  tower  above 
the  rest  and  give  a  general  direction  to  the  whole  course  of 
government,  but  the  predominance  was  merely  personal  and 
never  permanent ;  and  even  in  such  a  case  there  were  colleagues 
who  were  ready  to  oppose  or  even  impeach  the  statesman  who 
overshadowed  them.  It  was  common  for  the  King  to  choose 
or  dismiss  a  single  Minister  without  any  communication  with 
the  rest;  and  so  far  was  even  William  from  aiming  at  Minis- 
terial unity  that  he  had  striven  to  reproduce  in  the  Cabinet 
itself  the  balance  of  parties  which  prevailed  outside  it.  Sunder- 
land's plan  aimed  at  replacing  these  independent  Ministers  by 
a  homogeneous  Ministry,  chosen  from  the  same  party,  repre- 
senting the  same  sentiments,  and  bound  together  for  common 
action  by  a  sense  of  responsibility  and  loyalty  to  the  party  to 
which  it  belonged.  Not  only  was  such  a  plan  likely  to  secure  a 
unity  of  administration  which  had  been  unknown  till  then,  but 
it  gave  an  organization  to  the  House  of  Commons  which  it  had 
never  had  before.  The  Ministers  who  were  representative  of 
the  majority  of  its  members  became  the  natural  leaders  of  the 
House.  Small  factions  were  drawn  together  into  the  two  great 
parties  which  supported  or  opposed  the  Ministry  of  the  Crown. 
Above  all  it  brought  about  in  the  simplest  possible  way  the 
solution  of  the  problem  which  had  so  long  vexed  both  Kings  and 
Commons.  The  new  Ministers  ceased  in  all  but  name  to  be  the 
King's  servants.  They  became  simply  an  Executive  Committee 
representing  the  will  of  the  majority  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
and  capable  of  being  easily  set  aside  by  it  and  replaced  by  a 
similar  Committee  whenever  the  balance  of  power  shifted  from 


58  DISCUSSIONS  OF  FACTS   AM)   ID  FAS 

one  side  oi  tlu-  llou.sc  lu  the  other.  Such  was  the  orij^iii  of  that 
system  of  representative  <Tovernnient  wliich  has  ji;one  on  from 
Sunderland's  day  to  our  own. 


THE  .ESTHETIC  VALUE  OF   EFFICIENCY' 

Ethel  Puffer  Howes 

This  is  not  an  essay  in  criticism.  It  is  an  argument  from 
example;  containing  also  the  personal  observations  of  an  un- 
abashed a^sthetician,  who  takes  her  own  where  she  finds  it.  A 
living  organism  of  industry,  all  compact  of  social  values,  may 
be  truly  an  aesthetic  whole.  It  may  have  beauty  transcending  a 
multitude  of  partial  uglinesses,  not  because  it  is  good,  but  be- 
cause its  excellence  shows  the  form  of  perfect  unity.  That 
harmony  of  potent  action,  that  blending  of  mutual  influences, 
which,  in  symphony  or  drama,  makes  it  difficult  to  disentangle 
cause  and  elTect,  is  an  unfailing  mark,  in  the  conduct  of  life  no 
less,  of  the  presence  of  the  aesthetic  equality.  If  "  all  art  aspires 
to  the  condition  of  music,"  certainly  all  to  which  we  can  ascribe 
beauty  is  known  by  such  a  fusion  of  cfRcient  action  and  results 
as  I  mean  to  try  to  tell  of  here.  The  very  difficulty  of  the  task 
is  warrant  of  the  quality  of  the  subject. 

It  was  certainly  with  no  uiidue  expectations  of  charm  or  in- 
spiration that  I  alighted  at  Vateria,  after  a  night  in  which  dark 
phantoms  of  round-topped  Southern  i)ines  had  marched  slowiy 
and  continuously  by  the  window  of  my  berth.  From  Washing- 
ton down,  the  journey  had  revealed  untidy  houses,  idle  negroes, 
unkempt  whites.  The  Southerner  of  Nicholas  Worth  was  in  my 
literary  baggage,  and,  like  a  character  out  of  the  book,  a  dis- 
tinguished Georgian  had  on  the  way  assured  me,  "  You  know  all 
this  hookworm  talk  is  just  to  keep  capital  away  from  the  South." 
And  the  first  aspect  of  the  town  held  in  its  unloveliness  noth- 
ing unforeseen.     All  about  were  fields  of  blackened  and  ragged 

'  From  The  Atlantic  Monthly,  July,  191 2.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


THE  MSTHETIC    VALUE  OF  EFFICIENCY  59 

stujnps,  showing  where  the  magnificent  pine  forests  had  once 
stood.  The  fine  new  schoolhouses  and  bank  were  shouldered 
by  shabby  shingled  relics  of  the  earlier  mushroom  growth ;  and 
when  a  yellow  cow  came  strolling  along  the  sidewalk  seeking 
what  she  might  devour,  it  seemed  that  the  last  touch  uf  char- 
acter had  been  given.  Only  the  wonderful  aromatic  fragrance 
of  the  cut  long-leaf  pine,  which  filled  the  air,  gave  intimation 
of  a  quality  soon  to  be  revealed  —  a  truly  symbolic  note  of 
beauty. 

For  the  place  I  shall  call  Vateria  is  a  Mississippi  lumber  town. 
It  is  also  one  of  the  most  remarkable  communities  of  the  New 
South,  in  which  a  strain  of  power  and  self-completeness  strangely 
dominates  our  academic  notion  of  outward  civic  beauty.  There 
is,  indeed,  an  authentic  and  virile  charm  in  the  spectacle  of  its 
common  life ;  but  it  can  be  clearly  envisaged  only  in  some  in- 
terpretation of  the  unusual  forces  at  work  there  for  some  twenty 
years  past. 

One  who  knew  what  other  Southern  lumber  towns  were  like 
ten  or  more  years  ago,  before  the  leaven  of  Vateria  had  worked 
throughout  the  Gulf  States,  would  have  earlier  discerned  its 
quality.  In  those  days,  not  yet  ended  indeed,  the  lumberman 
came  in  only  to  exploit  and  to  destroy.  A  sawmill  was  built 
on  the  railroad,  a  logging-camp  of  violent  and  often  vicious  men 
profaned  the  forest.  The  country  people  furnished  few  workers 
to  either  mill  or  camp.  It  was  a  dissipated  and  irregular  life, 
and  a  shifting  crew.  The  common  saying  went  that  a  camp 
had  three  crews  —  "  one  coming,  one  going,  one  at  work." 

No  families  were  ever  taken  into  the  woods,  and  all  the  vices 
flourished  there,  with  at  least  the  tacit  encouragement  of  the 
owners;  for  though  ostensibly  high  wages  were  paid,  it  was 
expected  that  most  of  this  would  return  to  the  company  either 
directly  through  the  high  prices  the  men  were  compelled  to  pay 
at  the  commissary  (company  store),  or  indirectly  through  the 
leasing  of  this  privilege  of  exploitation.  Like  the  turpentine 
camp  of  to-day,  it  was  a  synonym  for  almost  intolerable  con- 
ditions. No  land  was  taken  up  in  the  town  by  employees,  no 
houses  built ;  but  when  the  timber  was  cut  off  to  such  a  distance 


6o  Discrssroxs  oi-  r.icrs  axd  ideas 

from  ihe  sawmill  that  it  was  no  longer  profitable  to  haul  it  in 
by  primitive  methods,  the  company  moved  on  from  the  de- 
nuded land,  the  camp  vanished,  and  the  town  dwindled. 

Moreover,  in  the  best  of  circumstances,  the  supply  of  logs 
to  the  mill  was  most  irregular.  For  this  reason,  a  mill  never 
ran  steadily  throughout  the  year,  but  was  always  stojjping  and 
starting  up,  to  the  great  detriment  of  the  working  efficiency  of 
its  force.  So  bad  was  the  traditional  reputation  of  these  lum- 
ber towns  and  camps,  and  of  the  management  of  the  comi)anies, 
that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  get  banking  accommodation 
for  a  lumbering  proposition.  No  industry  suffered  such  deep 
distrust  on  the  part  of  bankers,  and  the  consequent  hand-to- 
mouth  methods  of  financing  completed  the  vicious  circle.  Moral 
and  physical  ugliness,  dreariness  and  sloth,  marked  the  Southern 
lumber  country. 

It  remained  for  a  Westerner  with  imagination  to  transform 
these  conditions  in  one  town,  and,  by  force  of  example,  largely 
throughout  the  South.  He  saw  that  an  element  of  permanence 
must  be  given  to  what  seems  in  its  nature  the  most  unstable 
and  nomadic  of  industries.  This  man  of  insight  came  South 
in  the  early  nineties  from  a  wide  western  experience  in  lumber- 
ing. He  found  at  Vateria  the  usual  moribund  company  with  a 
small  sawmill  nearly  at  the  end  of  its  possible  hauling  distance 
with  ox-teams.  The  town  was  then  a  dismal  little  community 
of  some  two  hundred  souls,  getting  a  precarious  living  from  its 
few  cotton  fields  dotted  here  and  there  among  the  pines.  The 
farmers  were  in  the  grip  of  the  vicious  "  credit  system,"  under 
which  they  owed  the  storekeeper  three  prices  for  all  supplies 
advanced  before  harvest,  and  were  held  fast  by  their  creditor 
to  the  single  "  money  crop  "  —  cotton.  Timber  land  was  a  drug 
on  the  market  at  any  distance  from  the  railroad,  and  cleared 
land  did  not  produce  more  than  fifteen  dollars'  worth  of  cotton 
the  acre.  The  inhabitants  were  on  the  cultural  level  of  full  fifty 
years  ago.  Cooking  was  still  done  entirely  in  open  fireplaces ; 
few  had  ever  seen  a  stove,  much  less  a  steam-engine.  The  story 
is  still  toldof  the  countryman  who  came  into  the  tent  of  a  surveyor 
for  the  first  railroad,  not  long  before  our  story  begins,  and  said. 


THE  MSTEETIC   VALUE  OF  EFFICIENCY  6l 

looking  at  the  iron  stove,  '"  Well,  now,  they  tell  me  that  is  a  very 
fine  invention.  I  suppose  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  build  a  fire 
in  that  thing  and  oft"  you  go  ! "     It  was  his  notion  of  a  locomotive. 

The  destiny  of  such  a  lumber  town  hangs  on  its  mill,  and  the 
prosperity  of  the  mill,  to  an  extent  few  people  understand,  on 
the  efiicienc]/  of  the  logging-camp.  Sawmill  practice  has  been 
almost  complei/y  standardized.  The  economical  size  of  the 
mill,  the  order  and  method  of  procedure,  and  the  proportionate 
space  allotted  to  different  activities,  are  all  well  known.  Few 
variations,  except  in  the  way  of  dealing  with  the  personnel, 
are  to  be  found  over  the  whole  country.  But  in  the  field  it  is 
different.  The  unlike  types  of  timber,  of  situation,  of  trans- 
portation, of  climatic  conditions  of  work,  furnish  infinitely 
varied  problems.  In  buying,  cutting,  loading,  and  hauling 
timber,  in  maintaining  hundreds  of  men  in  the  wilderness,  — 
here  lie  the  moral  and  the  financial  risks,  and  the  opportunities 
for  generalship.  The  great  lumbermen  have  had  their  hearts 
in  their  camps,  and  our  Westerner  was  no  exception  to  the  rule. 
I  shall  follow  the  transformation  of  the  industry  and  of  its 
people,  then,  from  camp  to  town. 

It  was  clear  that,  for  permanence  in  the  lumber  industry,  the 
first  requirement  was  a  steady  unfailing  supply  of  raw  material 
for  the  mill,  and  the  new  owner's  first  means  to  that  end  was  a 
logging  railroad  to  the  camp.  This  railroad  was  built  of  stand- 
ard gauge,  but  light  and  flexible,  so  as  to  be  easily  carried  from 
one  timber  "  stand  "  to  another.  It  goes  ahead  with  its  temporary 
spurs  at  the  rate  of  a  mile  and  a  half  every  four  days,  curling 
into  every  "forty"  ahead  of  the  sawyers,  who  cut  their  twenty 
acres  a  day.  Twenty  miles  of  it  have  since  been  sold  to  a  new 
railroad,  which  has  made  Vateria  a  branch ;  to-day  cutting  is 
going  on  thirty-five  miles  away  from  the  mill.  The  life  of  the 
mill  operations  has  been  extended  at  least  another  generation, 
and  entire  steadiness  ensured  throughout  the  year.  .  .  . 

Prior  to  the  coming  of  the  Vateria  Company  it  was  general 
practice  in  such  logging  camps  to  fell  the  trees  each  side  of  the 
railroad,  haul  them  up  to  the  track  with  horses  or  mules,  and 
hoist  them  on  an  ox-chain  to  the  car-trucks.     One  of  the  first 


62  DISCUSSIONS  OF  FACTS  AND  IDI'.AS 

great  changes  of  the  new  company  was  to  bring  in  the  steam 
"skidcier,"  which  hauls  in  logs  from  a  distance  oi  nearly  a  thou- 
sand feet  from  the  track.  This  machine  is  formidable  in  its 
appearance  and  terrifying  in  its  action.  It  consists  of  two  car- 
trucks  carrying  the  engines  and  the  derricks  of  two  powerful 
steam  hoisting  machines.  The  engine  car  is  chained  to  the 
track,  and  the  derrick  car  is  anchored  from  its  top  both  ways 
with  heavy  steel  guy  lines.  From  four  great  steel  drums,  four 
three-quarter  inch  steel  cables,  terminating  in  steel  hooks,  pass 
through  as  many  blocks  rigged  on  this  derrick-car.  The  ends 
of  the  cables  are  dragged  out  by  the  horses,  and  hooked  each 
about  a  felled  log  within  the  semicircle  of  seven  hundred  feet 
radius.  Then,  at  a  signal,  the  engine  races,  the  drums  wind 
up  the  cables,  and  the  great  logs  come  tearing  and  crashing  in 
like  so  many  furious  beasts  —  uprooting  saplings,  rending  even 
good-sized  trees,  till  they  bring  up  end-on  on  the  pile.  SLx 
hundred  logs  a  day  can  be  brought  up  to  the  track  in  this  way. 
When  the  full  circle  on  both  sides  has  been  cleared  of  logs,  the 
machine  is  undamped  from  the  track,  moves  on,  under  its  own 
steam,  to  its  next  station,  and  in  four  minutes  is  pulling  in 
another   log. 

After  the  skidder  comes  the  steam  loader.  The  first  one  was 
brought  to  the  South  by  the  Vateria  Company  in  1895,  to  re- 
place the  old  slow  method  of  the  inclined  plane  and  ox-chain. 
This  machine,  though  not  so  startling  in  action,  is,  perhaps, 
more  wonderful  in  its  achievements  than  the  skidder.  It  is 
operated  by  three  men,  or  rather  by  the  driver  and  two  helpers, 
for  the  first  is  incomparably  the  most  important.  The  loader 
—  also  mounted  on  a  truck  —  is  a  great  steam  crane,  swinging 
freely  on  a  central  pin,  and  carrying  a  sliding  steel  cable  ending 
in  sharp  steel  tongs,  like  ice-tongs.  The  driver  swings  his 
boom  around  to  the  waiting  pile  of  logs,  at  the  same  time  re- 
leasing the  cable,  which  whirls  the  heavy  tongs  out  and  down. 
At  the  exact  moment  they  are  caught  by  the  man  on  the  pile  of 
logs,  and  hooked  about  one.  The  boom  whirls  again,  carrying 
up  the  great  log,  which  is,  as  if  by  magic,  —  really  by  the  skilful 
paying  out  of  the  cable,  —  deposited  in  the  exact  spot  indicated 


THE  ^ESTHETIC   VALUE  OF  EFFICIENCY  63 

by  the  man  on  the  empty  truck,  who  has  hardly  even  to  direct 
its  fall.  The  driver  becomes  immensely  dexterous  with  this 
monstrous  weapon,  all  the  more  fearsome  in  that  he  is  dealing 
with  two  variables,  the  moving  boom  and  the  weighted  cable 
which  slides  out  on  it.  Watching  this  perilous  play  I  could 
not  help  thinking  of  that  dictum  of  a  certain  judge,  in  deciding 
an  accident  case  in  favor  of  an  electric-car  conductor:  "You 
cannot  wield  a  trolley-car  like  a  rapier."  The  learned  justice 
could  never  have  said  that  of  the  steam  loader. 

Along  with  these  two  great  machines  to  multiply  the  work 
achieved  by  a  given  number  of  men,  there  should  be  recalled 
another,  which  is,  perhaps,  not  less  an  instrument  ot  saving. 
Of  course,  the  power  in  such  a  camp  is  all  from  the  waste  wood 
as  fuel ;  but  the  old  casual  hit-or-miss  method  of  gathering  wood 
for  the  locomotives  along  the  tracks  has  been  superseded  by  a 
most  ingenious  fuel  machine,  which  supplies  seven  locomotives 
with  wood  of  the  right  size.  At  intervals,  the  steam  skidder 
assembles  a  carload  of  "culls"  or  useless  logs,  —  the  defective 
"dead-heart"  logs,  or  the  gnarled  branches.  These  are  hauled 
down  to  the  yard  where  stands  the  fuel  machine,  every  inch  of 
solid  steel.  A  log  is  hoisted  by  a  small  donkey-engine  on  the 
machine  truck  to  an  endless-chain  conveyer,  which  brings  it 
under  a  steam  cross-cut  drag-saw.  After  the  saw  has  cut  it 
into  lengths  it  slides  on,  still  on  its  conveyer,  to  where  a  negro 
waiting  with  a  hook,  like  a  cotton-hook,  twists  it  around  to 
stand  on  end  under  something  between  a  pile  driver  and  a 
guillotine.  That  is,  the  pile-driver  is  fitted  with  a  guillotine 
of  five  knives  set  in  starfish  shape.  At  the  signal  the  pile 
driver  comes  down  with  a  "short,  sharp  shock,"  and  the  log  falls 
apart,  neatly  split  in  five  sections.  If  the  skidder  is  terrific, 
and  the  loader  elegant,  the  wood  machine  can  only  be  described 
as  incisive  !  Certainly  one  watches  it  with  amusement,  and 
can  hardly  refrain  from  attributing  to  it  an  all  but  human 
temperament. 

The  tremendous  increase  over  the  old  method,  in  the  number 
of  logs  thus  harvested,  and  the  great  skill  and  daring  developed 
in  the  wielders  of  these  machines,  have  their  influence  on  the 


64  DISCUSSIONS  ()/•    FACTS  A.\D  IDEAS 

prosperity  of  the  company  and  on  the  earnings  and  morale  of 
the  men.  But,  before  and  beyond  this,  the  whole  group  of 
conditions  has  been,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say,  metamorphosed 
by  the  presence  of  the  loader,  so  that  the  camp  has  been  made  a 
place  for  human  living. 

Up  to  1895  no  families  ever  lived  at  a  logging-camp  —  there 
was  no  place  for  them.  The  men  slept  in  bunk-cars  and  ate 
in  a  cook-car ;  with  the  methods  of  payment  and  camp  rule  then 
in  vogue,  what  that  meant  in  vicious  li\ing  and  slovenly  habits 
of  work  I  have  tried  to  indicate.  And  even  now,  as  Professor 
Hart  says  in  his  recent  Southern  South,  "  The  great  lumber 
camps  give  employTnent  to  thousands  of  people,  and  are  on  the 
whole  demoralizing,  for  liquor  there  flows  freely,  the  life  is  ir- 
regular, and  sawmill  towns  may  suddenly  decay."  Yet  with 
a  probable  seven  hundred  and  fifty  people  or  so  to  care  for  in  a 
migratory  camp,  no  other  disposition  seemed  possible.  But 
with  the  cheap,  quickly  made  tracks,  and  the  powerful  loading 
machine,  the  problem  was  solved  by  the  Vateria  owners.  If 
logs  could  be  lifted  on  and  off  cars  with  ease  and  expedition,  so 
could  other  things.  The  company  proceeded  to  devise  a  unit 
shack,  twelve  feet  by  eighteen,  with  a  hole  through  the  floor  and 
roof  through  which  an  iron  rod  with  an  eye  on  top,  like  a  huge 
needle,  could  be  bolted.  In  the  South  small  cabins  always  stand 
on  posts,  free  of  the  ground.  How  easy,  then,  to  bring  up  the 
loader  on  a  temporary  spur,  hook  into  this  needle's  eye,  and 
swing  the  shack  up  on  a  railway  truck,  to  be  deposited  in  the 
same  way  fifty  feet  from  the  track  in  the  heart  of  the  new  camp. 

To-day  the  camp  has  a  comf)letely  developed  family  life. 
Every  workman  has  his  one  or  two  shacks  free,  and  as  many 
more  as  he  wants  to  pay  for,  at  a  dollar  a  month  or  so.  In  a 
region  where  the  common  type  of  farmhouse  —  and  the  best 
for  country  living  —  is  two  rooms  set  some  six  feet  apart  with 
a  raised  common  roof  over  all,  the  shacks  are  a  most  liberal 
substitute.  The  usual  arrangement  copies  this,  or  assembles 
three  or  more  shacks  end-on  to  a  central  square  or  platform, 
and  covers  the  whole  with  a  raised  roof,  built  either  by  the  men 
themselves  or  the  company's  carpenters.     Many  of  these  houses 


THE  JESTHETIC   VALUE  OF  EFFICIENCY  65 

have  fenced-in  gardens,  full  of  flowers  and  vegetables,  with  vines 
running  luxuriantly  over  roofs  and  fences. 

Thus  the  unit  shack  and  the  loader  together  have  made  it 
possible  for  four  hundred  or  more  men  to  keep  their  wives  and 
children  with  them  through  frequent  changes  of  camp,  with  all 
that  that  means  for  thrifty  living  and  steady  work.  It  has 
meant  that  the  best  workmen  in  the  country  have  come  and 
stayed  with  the  Vateria  Company,  and  by  their  skill  and  pro- 
ductive work  have  contributed  again  to  the  same  efficiency 
which  first  gave  the  basic  conditions  of  their  life. 

It  is,  however,  not  family  life  alone  that  has  been  made  pos- 
sible. Other  lumber  camps,  if  not  utterly  neglected,  are  cared 
for  with  benevolent  despotism.  That  the  camp  and  the  store, 
boarding-house  and  hospital  cars,  are  lighted  with  electricity 
from  a  company  plant,  and  supplied  with  water  from  an  artesian 
well,  and  that  the  employees  have  the  free  use  of  the  company's 
telephone,  shows  only  the  care  of  the  company  to  abolish  so  far 
as  possible  the  minor  hardships  of  camp  life.  But  it  has  been 
the  practice  of  the  Vateria  Company  to  have  each  logging-camp 
regularly  incorporated  as  a  town  under  Mississippi  law,  with 
alderman,  constables,  school  board,  and  so  forth.  And  it  is  the 
laboring  men,  not  the  superintendents,  who  become  the  respon- 
sible town  officers.  As  the  camp  has  a  full  life  of  some  two 
years,  and,  thereafter,  frequently  remains  a  way  station  on  the 
logging  railroad,  this  is  entirely  feasible.  The  company  builds 
a  schoolhouse  and  a  Y.  M.  C.  A.  building  with  baths,  and  a 
combined  church  and  schoolhouse  for  the  negro  end  of  the  camp ; 
but  the  citizens  of  the  "  town"  pay  for  their  own  teachers,  and, 
as  members,  for  the  services  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  director.  There 
are  now  three  teachers  and  over  a  hundred  children  in  the  white 
school,  which  compares  favorably  with  any  rural  school  I  have 
seen.  The  workmen  also  largely  sustain  the  camp  doctor,  with 
a  drug  store  and  good  operating  room  arranged  in  a  car.  The 
company  store  sells  for  cash  at  ordinary  town  prices. 

It  is  easy  to  see  what  an  independent  and  self-respecting  com- 
munity is  thus  encouraged;  but  what  is  not  so  obvious  is  the 
far-reaching  importance  of  a  very  simple  economic  change  made 


66  DISCl'SSIOXS  OF  lACTS  AXD  IDEAS 

by  the  comp;iny,  which  j)reLC(lcd  and  conditioned  all  these 
developments.  To  an  Easterner  it  would  seem  only  ordinary 
business  method;  but  from  the  point  of  view  of  universal  lum- 
bering practice  in  the  South,  it  was  nothing  less  than  revolu- 
tionary. 

The  real  great  secret  of  the  recklessness  and  irresponsibility 
of  the  lumber  crew  was  their  financial  bondage.  In  all  lumber 
camps  and  sawmill  towns  the  men  were  compelled  to  trade  at 
the  company  store,  and  were  paid  only  by  being  allowed  to 
draw  their  balance  over  this  store  account  once  a  month;  And 
as  in  the  towns,  the  prices  at  the  commissary,  or  company  store, 
were  highly  exorbitant,  and  the  workmen  were  always  tempted 
to  run  up  large  accounts.  In  fact,  practically  all  the  lumber 
companies  that  made  any  profit  at  all  made  it  out  of  their 
stores,  —  "  operating  on  a  commissary  basis,"  as  it  is  called,  — 
with  results  to  the  workmen  that  may  be  imagined.  To  change 
this  custom  was  by  other  lumbermen  looked  on  as  suicidal. 

But  the  Vateria  Company  began  at  once  the  payment  of  its 
workmen  once  a  week  in  cash.  It  is  hard  to  make  clear  the 
miracle  that  this  one  simple  fact  works,  and  has  worked  here, 
in  the  conduct  of  a  man's  life,  and  in  his  moral  attitude.  It 
might  be  said  that  this  is  a  commonplace  business  method,  a 
matter  of  course.  Unfortunately  it  was,  and  is,  so  little  a  matter 
of  course  in  the  South  that  the  country's  whole  economic  con- 
dition would  have  been  changed,  if  fifteen  years  ago  the  credit 
system  could  have  been  swept  away  everywhere  and  cash  pay- 
ments inaugurated.  A  large  number  of  immigrants,  brought 
with  great  hopes  to  South  Carolina  in  1906,  left  there  within  a 
year  largely  because  they  were  not  paid  in  cash  and  had  to  trade 
at  the  company  store.  And  to-day,  still,  the  camp,  mine,  and 
plantation  hands,  the  tenant  farmers  and  the  small  freehold 
farmers,  are  nearly  all  fast  bound,  each  under  the  special  con- 
ditions of  his  calling,  in  this  cruel  system  of  indefinite  credits 
and  inordinate  pav-ments.  But  by  this  first  act  of  economic 
justice  on  the  part  of  the  Vateria  owners,  the  first  condition  of  in- 
dependent and  self-controlled  living  was  given,  to  which  the 
others  were  but  corollaries.     All  the  incentives  to  steady  and 


THE  ESTHETIC   VALUE  OF  EFFICIENCY  67 

thrifty  living,  to  self-control  and  self-respect,  were  thus  supplied 
to  the  workman ;  family  life  and  responsibility,  the  opportunity 
for  civic  duty,  education,  and  the  basic  condition  of  all,  control 
of  the  product  of  his  labor. 

It  was  this  same  financial  freedom  which  in  Vateria  itself 
gave  an  early  firm  foundation  for  its  healthy  and  enterprising 
growth.  With  liberal  weekly  wages  in  hand,  the  mill  workers 
could  trade  where  they  would.  The  result  was  that  merchants 
and  storekeepers  of  all  kinds  came  to  set  up  in  the  town ;  a 
healthy  competition  was  induced,  which  kept  prices  reasonable, 
so  that  the  country  trade  came  in  from  all  about.  The  thus 
augmented  stream  of  ready  cash  attracted  banks,  and  the  de- 
posits made  new  enterprises  possible  through  loans.  Thus 
simple  common-sense  fairness  in  paying  off  laborers  became  a 
very  great  factor  in  the  building  up  of  an  active  town. 

To  this  day  many  lumber  companies  are  "  operating  on  a 
commissary  basis."  If,  however,  they  tell  of  the  reckless  im- 
providence of  their  mill  and  camp  operators,  it  is  easy  to  impute 
the  responsibility ;  Vateria  has  demonstrated  the  results  of  the 
other  method. 

Thus,  drawn  by  steady  employment  and  prompt  payment, 
the  best  workmen  were  available.  Much  at  variance  with  the 
usual  outlook,  the  main  reliance  of  the  Vateria  Company,  both 
mill  and  camp,  was  to  be  on  the  country  people.  These  were 
at  first  reluctant.  They  had  the  usual  view  of  "  lumber-jacks  " ; 
they  were  of  pure  American  stock,  used  to  farming  only ;  poor 
and  proud,  and,  at  first,  indolent.  But  if  a  man  has  a  stake  in 
the  country  in  property  and  family  relations,  he  is  fixed,  steadied, 
and  speeded.  The  Vateria  Company  encouraged  in  every  way 
the  ownership  of  land  and  the  building  of  homes  by  its  men. 
Though  the  legal  rate  of  interest  in  Mississippi  is  six  per  cent, 
most  of  the  country  bankers  get  their  ten  and  twelve  per  cent 
and  over ;  but  the  lumber  company  lent  money  to  its  employees 
at  six  per  cent,  and  sold  plots  of  ground  to  them  on  easy  terms. 

A  tremendous  inducement  to  superior  workmen  is  an  oppor- 
tunity to  educate  their  children.  Now  the  success  of  the  lumber 
mill,  the  shops,  and  the  various  subsidiary  enterprises  of  Vateria 


68  Discvssioxs  or  facts  and  ideas 

soon  made  it  i>ossil)lo  to  si)ciul  town  money  for  schools.  In  this 
one  tield  all  the  inlluence  that  the  company  could  bring  to  bear 
was  openly  exerted.  It  was  augmented  by  this  time  by  a  large 
group  of  energetic  young  men,  friends  and  relatives  of  the  original 
pioneer,  all  of  whom  li\ed  in  the  town.  This  again  sounds  to 
Eastern  ears  like  a  commonplace,  but  in  truth  it  is  almost 
unheard  of  in  lumber  towns  and  other  such  large  enterprises 
in  the  South.  Hardly  one  but  suffers  from  absentee  landlord- 
ism. But  our  Westerner  and  his  associates  served  on  the  school 
boards,  sent  their  children  to  the  public  schools,  and  fought  for 
them  year  in  and  year  out,  in  large  and  in  detail.  Other  citi- 
zens demanded  more  public  buildings,  paved  streets.  "  After 
we  have  good  schools,"  answered  the  lumbermen.  In  1905  the 
average  annual  expenditure  per  pupil  in  daily  attendance  in  the 
South  was  S9.75,  in  the  North  about  S28.45.  In  1900,  Missis- 
sippi spent  but  $6.17  per  pupil.  But  the  Vateria  school  budget 
has  been  for  years  $35,000  for  a  town  of  8500  people,  or  $20  per 
year  per  white  pupil.  The  result  is  that  the  schools  of  Vateria 
are  acknowledged  the  best  in  the  whole  state.  The  good  old 
country  stock  thereabout,  of  English  and  Scotch-Irish  descent, 
has  awakened  to  the  opportunity.  Family  after  family  moves 
to  town  that  its  children  may  be  educated,  and  the  personal 
level  of  the  workmen  available  has  been,  in  consequence  of  this 
large  material  for  selection,  obviously  raised. 

The  proportion,  among  the  employees,  of  American  countr)^ 
people  settled  in  their  own  homes,  to  the  nomad  workers,  is 
enormously  greater  than  that  in  other  mill  towns  and  camps. 
In  the  town  of  one  great  enterprise  in  this  field  a  teacher  of  the 
lowest  grade  school  was  asked  as  to  the  nationality  of  her 
charges.  "  All  dagoes,"  she  answered.  "  They  are  very  quick 
to  learn,  but  they  get  little  schooling,  because  their  parents 
never  stay  any  time  in  the  same  place."  In  the  light  of  these 
facts,  and  their  significance  for  the  community  life,  the  unpaved 
streets  and  homely  vistas  of  Vateria  ceased  to  have  a  negative 
aesthetic  value.  A  breath  of  energy  and  of  hope  seemed  to 
blow  across  them.  .  .  . 

And  what  of  the  aesthetic  meaning  of  Vateria?    The  town 


THE  ESTHETIC   VALUE  OF  EFFICIENCY  69 

does  not  lack  all  outward  fairness.  It  has  dignified  public 
buildings.  Stately  long-leaf  pines  in  its  park  stand  up  against 
the  western  sky ;  around  them  are  some  charming  houses, 
lovely  gardens.  But  not  by  these  is  it  aesthetically  saved.  Nor 
is  material  prosperity  here  to  be  regarded  as  compensation  for 
vanished  beauty,  though  it  may,  indeed,  be  accepted  as  such  on 
occasion  —  no  doubt  every  ugly  thriving  town  might  make  the 
claim.  And  not  even  does  the  effective  activity  of  the  indus- 
trial system  give  warrant  for  according  it  a  positive  sesthetic 
quality.  There  are  many  smooth-working  great  industrial 
machines  in  which  there  is  no  essential  distinction  between  the 
animate  and  the  inanimate  elements.  Such  industrial  machines 
are  just  over  the  aesthetic  threshold  —  they  have  the  low-grade 
unity  of  the  steam  engine  and  the  dynamo.  As,  in  criticism, 
the  highest  place  is  refused  to  that  literature  which,  however 
integral  in  plan  and  exquisite  in  workmanship,  conspicuously  lets 
go  the  prime  factor  in  human  beings,  will  and  its  obligations,  — 
as  the  book  which  aims  to  deal  with  life  and  yet  ignores  its  es- 
sential meaning,  fails  of  great  art,  —  so  the  industrial  creation 
which  aims  at  organic  perfection,  and  yet  takes  no  account  of 
its  essential  element,  human  character  and  its  needs,  fails  in 
the  same  way.  There  is  a  fatal  flaw  in  that  integrity  which 
alone  can  give  it  aesthetic  value. 

Here  is  the  distinction  of  Vateria.  The  genius  of  the  pioneer 
lumberman  lay  in  the  way  he  made  every  improvement  in 
method  subserve  the  character  and  training  of  his  workers,  and 
every  improvement  in  character  of  the  workers  subserve  the 
organic  growth  of  the  enterprise.  Vateria  is  no  little  Elysium 
of  "  welfare  work."  Of  such  there  is  very  little ;  the  employers 
are  too  just,  the  workers  too  proud,  to  allow  it.  It  is  rather 
a  place  where  intense  effort  toward  industrial  excellence  and 
simple  justice  in  financial  policy  have  been  made  an  opportunity 
for  individual  growth.  This  it  is  which  makes  the  aesthetic 
value  of  efficiency  in  the  industrial  system.  This  ultimate  in- 
tegrity of  the  industrial  organism  is  gained  by  guarding  the 
self-respect  and  the  moral  and  mental  growth  of  the  employee 
by  the  mutual  practice  of  industrial  efficiency. 


70 


DISCi'SSIO.WS  OF   1-ACTS   AM)   IDEAS 


The  authentic  charm  oi  \'ateria  is  in  the  harmonious  action 
of  its  spirit  of  conscious  competence.  That  spirit  of  competence 
turns  to  the  best  human  uses  its  hard-won  material  gain,  and 
turns  again  the  energy  drawn  from  mental  and  moral  freedom 
back  into  the  conduct  of  affairs.  The  reasoned  appreciation 
of  such  sturdy,  self-complete  civic  entities  is  worth  encouraging 
in  America  to-day.  Too  often  is  the  City  Beautiful  held  to  be 
a  matter  of  parkways,  fountains,  groupings,  and  vistas.  Let 
us  rather  learn  to  see  the  quality  of  beauty  where  there  is  lucid 
excellence  of  civic  and  industrial  performance. 


THE   HONEY-BEE  1 


A.  E.  Shipley,  F.  R.  S. 

The  social  life  of  the  honey-bee  {Apis  mcllifica)  is  more  com- 
plex than  that  of  any  other  animal  save  man,  and  in  some 
respects  the  differentiation  of  the  units  which  compose  the 
society  surpasses  anything  we  can  recognize  in  human  economy. 
Among  other  bees  and  wasps  the  future  of  the  race  is  wrapped 
up  throughout  the  winter  months  in  the  body  of  one  fertilized 
female ;  should  she  die,  the  particular  race  is  at  an  end ;  but 
the  honey-bee  colony  lives  through  the  winter  and  is  permanent, 
or  at  any  rate  potentially  permanent.  Although  a  "queen" 
is  cherished,  the  life  of  the  hive  is  socialistic.  No  private  prop- 
erty exists;  "all  is  the  state's;  the  state  pro\ddes  for  all." 
In  devotion  to  duty,  in  single-mindedness  of  purpose,  in  energy 
expended  for  others,  in  whole-hearted  devotion  to  the  welfare 
of  the  community  which  shelters  her,  the  worker-bee  is  unique. 

As  every  one  knows,  the  inhabitants  of  a  hive  comprise  three 
ranks  of  bees.  U)  The  queen,  as  a  rule  but  one  at  a  time,  is 
ver}'  literally  the  mother  of  her  people,  for  she  alone  lays  eggs; 
(n)  the  workers,  in  structure  females,  though  —  with  rare  ex- 
ceptions —  never  laying  eggs,  but  doing  with  tireless  energy 
the  work  of  the  hive ;   {Hi)  the  drones  or  males,  absolutely  use- 

'  From  the  Edinburgh  Review,  January,  1914.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


THE  HONEY-BEE  7 1 

less  except  that  amongst  them  will  be  found  one  —  probably 
the  strongest  —  who  fertilizes  the  queen-bee. 

Let  us  consider  for  a  brief  space  the  activities  of  these  varying 
ranks.  A  hive  has  swarmed  —  that  is  to  say,  a  number  of 
workers,  together  with  a  smaller  number  of  drones  and  the 
existing  queen,  have  left  the  hive  and  are  hanging  clustered 
together  in  a  mass  of  moving  insects,  perhaps  as  small  as  a 
cricket  ball,  perhaps  five  feet  in  height  and  at  its  widest  a  foot 
or  more  in  diameter.  The  swarm  either  finds  a  new  home  for 
itself  in  a  hollow  tree,  or  more  usually  is  "hived"  by  a  bee- 
master  in  a  skip.  After  cleaning  out  and  if  necessary  smooth- 
ing the  walls  of  their  new  home,  the  worker  bees  immediately 
begin  the  formation  of  the  new  combs.  An  uppermost  row  of 
bees  clasps  the  roof  of  the  hive  with  their  fore  legs  supporting 
other  rows  below  them,  until  we  find  a  living  veil  of  bees  hanging 
from  the  roof  of  the  hive.  All  these  bees  are  secreting  wax  on 
the  wax  plates  of  their  abdomens.  To  produce  this  they  must 
previously  have  produced  much  honey.  Latter  tells  us  that  to 
produce  one  pound  of  wax  fifteen  pounds  of  honey  must  be  eaten. 

Right  and  left  of  this  veil  ot  bees  will  be  parallel  veils  engaged 
in  forming  other  combs  so  accurately  spaced  that  ultimately 
the  empty  plane  between  two  finished  combs  is  just  wide  enough 
to  allow  two  bees  to  pass  each  other.  The  topmost  row  of  bees, 
after  kneading  and  moulding  the  wax  with  their  jaws  (mandibles), 
press  it  in  a  line  along  the  roof  to  form  a  foundation  for  the  comb. 
This  of  course  is  an  upside-down  foundation,  for  bees  construct 
their  comb  from  above  downwards.  More  wax  is  then  supplied 
by  the  hanging  bees  below  and  passed  forward  to  the  builders 
of  the  foundation.  As  soon  as  the  foundation  is  secured,  the 
living  veil  disintegrates  and  the  constituent  bees  begin  to  work 
independently  at  the  building  of  the  comb.  No  bee  or  group 
of  bees  works  at  one  cell  or  group  of  cells ;  always  fresh  workers 
are  coming  and  fastening  their  mite  of  wax  to  one  or  the  other 
part  of  the  comb.  All  seems  unorganized,  undirected,  confused, 
and  without  guidance.  There  is  no  foreman  builder;  there  is 
no  experience,  for  many  of  the  builders  have  scarcely  emerged 
from  the  pupa  stage  for  three  days ;   there  is  no  means  even  of 


72 


DISCISSIONS  OF  FACTS  AND  IDEAS 


seeinp,  for  the  inside  of  a  hive  is  pilch  dark.  Vet  the  bees  pro- 
duce with  machine-like  rapidity  and  mathematical  accuracy  a 
cell  so  uniform  in  size  that  "at  the  time  when  the  decimal  sys- 
tem was  established,  and  a  fixed  measure  sought  in  nature  as 
a  starting-point  and  an  incontestable  standard,  it  was  pro- 
posed by  Reaumur  to  select  for  this  purpose  the  cell  of  the 
bee."  ' 

Bees,  and  wasps  also,  have  learned  that  to  obtain  most  space 
with  the  use  of  the  least  material  and  consequently  least  labor, 
the  columnar  cells  should  be  six-sided  in  cross-section.  The 
vertical  comb  of  bees  consists  of  two  layers  of  cells  back  to  back. 
The  bottom  of  each  cell  is  a  three-sided  pyramid,  just  the  shape 
that  is  seen  when  the  eighth  part  of  a  cube  is  removed ;  on  the 
six  edges  thus  shown  the  six  sides  of  the  cell  arise.  The  walls  of 
the  cells  are  not  of  uniform  thickness ;  they  become  thinner  as 
they  near  the  mouth,  which,  however,  has  a  thickened  rim. 
These  cells  are  all  of  one  size  and  serve  as  the  homes  of  the 
young  workers  and  for  the  storing  of  the  collected  pollen  and 
honey. 

But  atter  some  weeks  the  inhabitants  of  the  hive  begin  to 
think  of  rearing  drones  and  queens.  Appropriate  cells  for  these 
are  now  prepared.  The  drone-cell  has  to  accommodate  a  bigger 
lar\'a  than  the  worker-cell  and  is  correspondingly  bigger  and 
about  one-third  deeper,  but  except  in  size  the  difference  is 
negligible.  Among  wild  honey-bees,  drone-cells  are  often  placed 
in  special  drone-combs,  but  in  the  artificial  hive  these  cells 
are  intermingled  with  the  worker-cells.  They  are,  to  begin  Mith, 
very  few  in  number,  usually  four  or  five ;  thirty  seems  almost 
to  be  a  record  in  a  flourishing  colony.  All  trace  of-  a  six-sided 
column  disappears;  the  cell  is  cylindrical  inside,  but  irregular 
and  often  marked  with  the  scars  of  worker-cells  outside.  The 
cell  is  about  the  size  of  an  acorn  ;  the  wall  is  very  stout,  two  to 
three  millimeters  thick,  and  the  mouth  opens  downwards.  As 
a  rule  these  queen-cells  stand  out  from  under  the  edge  of  the 
worker-comb,  rarely  are  they  found  on  the  drone's  comb.  The 
worker-cells  are  used  over  and  over  again  for  successive  breeds 

•  Maeterlinck,  The  Life  of  the  Bee,  translated  by  Alfred  Sutro,  p.  189. 


THE  HONEY-BEE 


73 


of  these  undeveloped  females,  and  the  same  is  true  of  the  drone- 
cells  ;  but  as  soon  as  the  young  queen  has  emerged  from  the 
royal-cell,  it  is  broken  up  and  the  wax  is  carried  off  to  be  used 
elsewhere. 

The  "middle-plate"  between  the  two  layers  of  cells  of  one 
comb  is  separated  from  the  "middle-plate"  of  the  next  comb  by 
a  space  of  35  mm.  The  depth  of  each  brood-cell  is  12.5  mm., 
and  this  leaves  a  space  between  each  adjacent  comb  of  10  mm., 
room  enough  for  the  bees  to  pass  back  to  back  as  they  run  over 
the  open  mouths  of  the  cells  tending  the  inmates.  But  since 
when  filling  or  emptying  the  honey-cells  there  is  no  need  for 
the  bees  to  pass  one  another,  the  honey-cells  are  deeper  (16-17 
mm.),  and  the  space  between  them  is  consequently  narrowed, 
and  the  bulky  queen-bee  cannot  traverse  it.  The  rate  of  growth 
of  the  comb  depends  on  the  rate  of  growth  of  the  colony,  and 
often  it  happens  that  the  lower  part  is  left  in  an  incomplete 
state. 

A  young  comb  is  white,  translucent,  very  brittle,  but  it  soon 
hardens  and  toughens.  The  larva  housed  in  each  cell  before 
turning  into  the  cocoon  spins  a  silken  sac.  When  she  emerges 
from  the  cell  as  a  perfect  insect,  she  leaves  this  sac  behind  her, 
and  although  the  vacated  cell  is  at  once  and  carefully  cleaned 
out,  this  silken  sac  is  suffered  to  remain,  and  so  with  each  new 
occupant  of  the  cell  the  number  of  sacs  increases,  adding  greatly 
to  the  strength  of  the  comb.  The  cells  of  old  combs  — •  and 
combs  are  often  years  old  —  may  contain  dozens  of  these  silken 
webs,  and  although  each  is  of  extreme  tenuity,  their  accumu- 
lated bulk  often  necessitates  the  enlargement  of  the  cell  if  it  is 
to  accommodate  further  larvae.  The  cell  covers  of  the  worker 
and  drone  brood-cells  are  convex  and  are  easily  distinguished 
from  the  flat  caps  of  the  honey-cells. 

One  of  the  constant  cares  of  the  ever-busy  bee  is  that  of  keep- 
ing the  comb  in  repair,  and  constant  reparation  is  needed. 
Another  duty  is  to  keep  it  clean.  As  soon  as  a  cell  is  empty,  it  is 
"swept  and  garnished."  Dust,  fungi,  dead  bees,  old  remains 
of  food,  the  dejecta  of  the  queen  and  of  the  drones,  are  all  re- 
moved by  the  workers.     In  fact  these  indefatigable  spinsters 


74  DISCL'SSIOXS  OF  FACTS  AM)  IDEAS 

enjoy,  as  thcv  deserve  to  do.  a  perpetual  sprinp;-cleaniiij4,  so 
dear  to  the  female  heart. 

One  other  substance  besides  honey  and  pollen  is  brought  by 
the  workers  into  the  liive,  and  that  is  the  gummy,  sticky  exuda- 
tion of  certain  trees  —  for  instance,  that  of  the  horse-chestnut 
buds.  This  propolis,  as  it  is  called,  is  never  stored  in  cells.  It 
is  used  to  stop  crannies  in  the  hive  and  so  prevent  draughts; 
sometimes  it  is  plastered  nearly  all  over  the  inner  wall,  and  at 
other  times  invading  snails  or  moths  or  even  mice,  which  are 
too  big  for  the  bees  to  remove,  find  a  sticky  sepulture  entombed 
in  propolis  within  the  hive :  — 

"And  with  their  stores  of  gathcr'd  glue  contrive 
To  slop  the  rents  and  crannies  of  their  hive. 
No  bird-lime,  no  Idean  pitch,  produce 
A  more  tenacious  mass  of  clammy  juice." 

—  \'IRGIL,  Fourth  Gcorgic. 

An  average  hive  will  contain  some  30,000  workers,  2000 
drones,  and  one  queen,  but  in  a  strongly  stocked  community 
these  numbers  may  be  doubled  or  even  trebled.  The  cjueen 
alone  lays  eggs  and  is  a  fully  functional  female;  she  is  bigger 
than  the  worker,  and  her  abdomen  is  enlarged  to  accommodate 
her  enormous  ovary  which  pours  forth  a  ceaseless  flow  of  eggs. 
The  hind  legs  of  the  queen  are  devoid  of  those  modifications 
which  enable  the  worker  to  collect  and  store  the  pollen;  the 
wax  glands  again  are  reduced  and  apparently  never  used.  The 
drone  is  the  male ;  he  is  bigger  than  the  workers  and  the  queen, 
and  is  more  stoutly  built ;  his  hairs  are  densely  placed  and  short, 
his  eyes  are  so  large  that  they  meet  on  the  top  of  the  head,  the 
hind  legs  have  no  modifications  for  pollen  collecting,  etc.,  the 
antennae  have  an  extra  joint;  his  hum  is  deeper  and  louder 
than  that  of  the  workers.  He  has  altogether  a  stronger  and  more 
virile  organism,  and  yet,  with  the  sole  exception  of  fertilizing 
the  queen,  he  does  absolutely  nothing  helpful  in  the  life  of  the 
hive. 

When  the  queen  moves  on  her  egg-Ia^ing  progress,  she  first 
explores  each  empty  cell  with  her  antennae,  putting  her  head 


THE  HONEY-BEE 


75 


deep  into  the  cell ;  then  turnmg  around,  she  clasps  the  edge  of 
the  cell  with  her  hind  legs,  and  inserting  her  abdomen,  deposits 
a  single  egg  in  the  centre  floor  of  the  cell.  Then  she  passes  on  to 
the  next  cell,  and  never  does  she  tire  or  in  any  circumstance  miss 
a  cell.  During  this  progress  she  is  accompanied  by  a  small 
couxt  of  worker-bees  who,  as  courtiers  should  do,  walk  back- 
wards before  her.  Some  of  them  are  engaged  in  fanning  the 
queen  with  their  wings,  others  stroke  or  lick  with  their  "  tongue" 
the  royal  thorax  or  abdomen,  others  feed  her  on  their  half- 
digested  "pap"  or  "royal  jelly,"  and  all  are  humming  in  a  most 
soothing  and  comforting  manner. 

A  young  queen  at  the  height  of  the  season  (May  or  June) 
lays  some  2000  to  3500  eggs  in  the  four-and-twenty  hours.  After 
the  second  year  her  fecundity  is  somewhat  abated,  but  in  the 
course  of  her  four  to  five  years'  life  she  produces  many  hundred 
thousand  ova.  To  show  the  meaning  of  this  amazing  power 
of  metabolism.  Dr.  H.  Stadler  has  calculated  that  one  gram  of 
bee  flesh  will  produce  yearly  no  grams  of  bee  eggs.  There  is, 
however,  a  peculiar  relation  —  quite  inexplicable  —  between 
the  state  of  the  hive  and  the  number  of  eggs  laid.  The  latter 
varies  with  the  strength  of  the  community;  if  the  number  of 
the  hive  is  in  some  way  lowered,  the  egg-laying  is  intermitted. 
No  egg  is  laid  unless  there  are  enough  able-bodied  workers  to 
tend  the  resulting  larva.  In  the  tropics  the  activity  of  the  hive 
does  not  vary  'all  the  year  round,  but  in  temperate  climes  the 
queen  ceases  laying  in  the  autumn  and  retires  into  winter 
quarters,  to  recommence  her  task  early  in  the  following  spring. 

In  the  worker-cells  and  the  queen-cells  the  queen  lays  fer- 
tilized eggs ;  but  in  the  drone-cells  the  eggs  are,  as  far  as  is 
known,  invariably  unfertilized.  The  birth  of  the  drone  or  male 
bee  may  therefore  be  described  as  a  case  of  parthenogenesis. 
What  stimulus  induces  the  reproductive  organs  of  the  queen 
to  give  the  spermatozoa  access  to  the  egg  in  the  former  case,  and 
to  withhold  it  in  the  latter,  is  not  understood.  It  can  hardly 
be  a  matter  of  season,  for  the  worker-eggs  are  laid  at  all  times, 
the  drones  only  when  the  swarming  of  the  hive  seems  im- 
minent, and  the  queen-eggs  later  than  the  drone.     Neither  can 


76  Discrssioxs  of  facts  a.\p  in  fas 

it  be  the  stimulus  of  the  variation  in  the  si/.e  of  the  cell,  for  if 
all  the  larjie  male-cells  are  removed,  the  queen  will  lay  an  un- 
fertilized ep;^  in  a  worker-cell,  and  conversely,  sh(juld  the  stock 
of  worker-cells  be  exhausted,  she  will  lay  worker-eggs  in  male- 
celis.  The  i\\e  or  sbc  queen-eggs  laid  in  the  sj)acious  royal - 
cells  are  not  laid  simultaneously,  but  one  after  another  at  inter- 
vals of  one  or  two  days,  and  the  resultant  young  cjueens  emerge 
at  similar  intervals.  This  arrangement  has  an  important  bear- 
ing on  the  swarming  of  the  hive. 

As  soon  as  an  egg  is  laid,  the  motherly  instincts  of  those 
"barren  virgins,"  the  worker-bees,  are  aroused.  They  push 
their  heads  into  the  cell  and  apparently  do  something  to  the 
egg,  though  no  one  knows  what.  Within  three  days,  a  minute 
white,  maggot-like  grub  emerges  and  at  once  demands  the 
attention  of  several  workers.  It  is  de\-oid  of  almost  everything 
we  associate  with  bees.  It  has  no  wings,  no  legs,  no  sting,  no 
anteimae,  no  proboscis,  no  hairs,  no  hard  chitinous  cuticle,  only 
one  pair  of  saUvary  glands  (not  three)  whose  secretion  hardens 
to  form  the  cocoon ;  the  alimentary  canal  ends  blindly,  and  in- 
deed the  digestion  of  the  small  larva  is  so  complete  that  there 
is  no  reason  why  it  should  end  in  any  other  way. 

As  soon  as  the  larva  has  left  the  eggshell,  the  workers  hurry 
up  with  a  supply  of  nutriment.  At  first  this  consists  of  food 
which  they  themselves  secrete  from  their  salivary  glands.  It  is 
known  as  "pap"  or  "royal  jelly,"  and  has  a  white  or  yellowish 
jellylike  appearance.  The  workers  fill  the  cell  with  this  food, 
and  the  larva  not  only  eagerly  laps  it  into  her  mouth  but  prob- 
ably absorbs  this  pabulum,  in  which  she  floats,  through  her 
tender  skin.  On  the  fourth  day  the  worker  larva  is  partially 
weaned,  and  her  food  is  now  mixed  with  honey ;  after  the  same 
period  the  drones  are  completely  weaned  and  are  fed  hence- 
forth entirely  on  honey  and  pollen.  The  queen  larvae,  on  the 
other  hand,  are  always  fed  on  "royal  pap,"  and  consume  great 
quantities  of  it,  the  roomy  royal-cell  being  flooded  with  it. 
This  food  has  an  extraordinary  effect  on  the  future  of  the  brood ; 
if  continuously  given  to  a  larva  of  the  worker  class,  that  larva 
will  develop  into  a  queen-bee ;  if  continuously  given  to  a  drone- 


THE  HONEY-BEE  'j'j 

larva,  the  resultant  drone  will  be  of  an  enormous  and  monstrous 
growth,  but  its  testes  will  suffer  a  fatty  degeneration  and  dis- 
appear. 

After  five  and  a  half  days  the  queen  larvae,  and  after  six  days 
the  drone  and  worker  larvae,  cease  to  feed.  The  worker-bees 
now  close  with  a  convex  cap  the  cell  which  shelters  the  larva, 
and  the  entombed  larva  proceeds  to  secrete  from  its  salivary 
glands  a  cocoon  which  fills  the  cell,  except  in  the  case  of  a  royal- 
cell,  where  the  cocoon  occupies  about  one-third  of  the  space. 
Within  this  the  larva  becomes  first  a  "pronymph"  and  then  a 
true  pupa  in  which  the  body  of  the  adult  bee  is  being  rebuilt 
from  larval  tissues.  On  the  ''allotted  day,"  when  thechitinous 
cuirass  of  the  adult  has  to  some  extent  hardened,  the  young 
bee  is  ready  to  leave  her  cell  and  commences  to  gnaw  through 
the  waxen  cover  of  the  cell,  a  task  in  which  she  is  helped  by 
numerous  workers  outside.  Soon  the  way  is  cleared  and  she 
staggers  forth  into  the  darkness,  heat,  and  bustle  of  the  hive. 
Attendant  workers  wait  upon  her,  arrange  her  dishevelled  hairs, 
clean  her,  and  offer  her  honey  to  eat.  But  she  has  undergone  a 
resurrection,  and  is  at  first  bewildered  at  the  new  world  into 
which  she  has  stepped,  trembling  and  feeble.  Soon,  however, 
things  settle  down,  her  wings  expand  and  harden,  her  legs 
lengthen,  and  without  guidance,  without  experience,  she  in  a 
short  time  is  beating  her  wings  and  dancing  over  the  cells  now 
ready  to  open  for  the  exit  of  her  younger  sisters.  Both  drones 
and  workers  require  two  days  to  become  really  active  and 
capable  of  full  power,  but  half  a  day  suffices  for  the  young 
queen. 

Neither  workers  nor  drones  quit  the  hive  till  the  sixth  day 
after  emergence,  but  the  time  of  the  workers  is  not  wasted; 
hanging  in  motionless  but  living  garlands,  they  secrete  from 
four  pairs  of  "pockets"  situate  on  the  underside  of  the  abdomen, 
eight  plates  of  snow-white  wax  as  light  as  foam ;  they  also  secrete 
the  royal  jelly,  and  with  it  feed  the  larvae ;  they  carry  to  the 
"honey-pots"  the  honey  brought  into  the  hive  by  older  workers ; 
they  press  with  their  heads  into  the  pollen-cells  the  pollen  col- 
lected by  their  elders,    they  help  the  emerging  bees  into  the 


jS  DISCrsSIOXS  OF   FACTS  AXD  IDEAS 

outer  darkness  of  the  hive ;  ihey  cleanse  the  vacated  cells,  and, 
standing  in  parallel  rows,  obliquely  one  behind  another,  they 
regulate  by  the  fanning  of  their  wings  the  \-entilation  of  the  hive, 
and  drive  oil  the  superfluous  water  in  the  "nectar"  until  it 
obtains  the  consistency  of  honey.  All  this  is  done,  and  done 
well,  without  guidance  and  without  practice. 

Only  after  a  week  or  eight  days  do  our  young  workers  venture 
into  the  light,  and  this  great  adventure  is  fearfully  and  timidly 
undertaken.  Crossing  the  threshold,  they  attemjit  at  first 
short  flights,  enlarging  them  each  time,  but  never  do  they  turn 
their  head  in  any  direction  save  that  of  their  hive  and  home. 
During  their  first  flight  their  trachea?  —  their  breathing  tubes  — 
are  for  the  first  time  filled,  and  they  now  attain  their  normal 
figure.  Soon,  however,  they  return  to  resume  their  household 
duties,  for,  like  Martha,  they  are  "cumbered  about  much 
serving.''  Day  by  day,  if  the  weather  be  fav'orable,  these  trial 
flights  are  resumed  about  noon,  until  the  young  workers  are 
well  orientated  as  to  the  position  of  their  hive  amongst  sur- 
rounding objects;  as  a  rule  many  of  the  younger  bees  and 
drones  fly  together,  producing  a  veritable  cloud  of  flying  insects. 
After  another  eight  or  ten  days  the  workers  are  strong  enough 
to  go  in  search  of  honey,  pollen,  water,  or  the  sticky  propoUs. 

Both  color  and  scent  in  the  flowers  attract  the  bees ;  their 
favorite  hue  is  blue  and  certain  purplish  reds ;  then  come  in 
descending  order,  violet,  red,  white,  and  lastly  yellow.  When 
collecting  the  pollen,  the  bee  hovers  close  to  the  flower  and  be- 
sprinkles the  anthers  with  a  httle  honey  and  saUva ;  then, 
approaching  the  blossom,  she  kneads  the  now  moistened  and 
sticky  mass  of  pollen  with  her  jaws,  and  finally  packs  it  away 
in  baskets  or  corbicida  on  the  outer  surface  of  the  tibia  of  the 
last  pair  of  legs.  But  much  pollen  is  collected  in  a  more  in- 
direct way.  As  the  bee  moves  about  in  and  on  the  flower, 
pollen-grains  fall  all  over  her  body  and  readily  adhere  to  the 
branched  hairs  which  are  thickly  scattered  over  its  surface. 
The  first  joint  of  each  foot  (tarsus)  is  provided  with  a  thick 
coating  of  moistened  bristles,  and  these  are  used  to  brush  to- 
gether and  collect  the  pollen  scattered  over  the  body  of  the  bee. 


THE   HONEY-BEE  79 

Unless  the  honey  harvest  be  unusually  bountiful,  the  young 
bee  which  has  just  started  collecting  food  will  confine  herself 
to  pollen,  but  after  some  days  she  will  turn  her  attention  to 
honey,  or  rather  to  nectar,  which  is  not  at  all  the  same  thing 
as  honey.  The  proboscis  is  sunk  into  the  nectaries  of  the 
flower  and  the  sweet  juice  is  sucked  up.  The  nectar  is  stored 
in  the  so-called  honey  crop  for  transference  to  the  hive,  and 
when  a  bee  is  seen  seeking  her  home  with  her  abdomen  dis- 
tended by  a  full  honey  crop,  it  is  useless  to  search  her  for  pollen ; 
reciprocally,  a  bee  whose  hinder  legs  are  burdened  with  pollen 
has  ever  a  slender  abdomen.  Except  at  the  time  of  swarming, 
when  the  bees  that  leave  the  hive  gorge  themselves  with  honey 
so  as  to  have  some  provision  for  their  new  home,  no  worker  ever 
leaves  the  hive  laden  with  honey.  A  bee  with  a  swollen  abdo- 
men is  always  a  homing  bee. 

The  area  from  which  bees  collect  nectar  and  pollen  usually 
extends  over  a  circle  whose  radius  is  three  to  four  kilometres, 
although,  under  special  circiunstances,  i.e.  an  unusually  rich 
supply  of  nectar,  bees  may  fly  six  or  even  seven  kilometres,  but 
first  they  carefully  orientate  themselves  so  as  to  fix  the  position 
of  the  hive  in  their  brain.  The  return  journey  causes  no  trouble 
and  is  quick,  a  heavily  laden  bee  flying  home  at  the  rate  of 
twelve  to  twenty  kilometres  an  hour.  A  bee  without  honey 
and  without  pollen  is  said  by  some  observers  to  fly  at  the  rate 
of  thirty-two  kilometres  an  hour,  whilst  others  claim  that  a 
speed  of  sixty-five  kilometres  an  hour  can  be  attained. 

Nectar  is  a  sweet  watery  fluid  which  in  almost  every  case  has 
a  specific  flavor  associated  with  the  flower  from  which  it  is 
drawn.  This  specific  flavor  as  a  rule  disappears  in  the  honey, 
which  is  a  much  less  watery  fluid  than  the  nectar.  The  several 
changes  which  nectar  undergoes  in  becoming  honey  begin  in 
the  honey  crop,  where  the  saliva  which  is  mixed  with  the  nectar 
starts  the  transformation  of  the  cane-sugar  of  the  nectar  into 
the  dextrose  (grape-sugar)  and  Isevulose  (fruit-sugar)  of  the 
honey,  and  this  process  continues  after  the  fluid  has  been  de- 
posited in  the  waxen  cells.  When  honey  is  plentiful,  the  cells 
stored  with  the  pollen  will  receive,  before  they  are  covered  in. 


8o  nrscussfoxs  of  facts  axd  ideas 

a  little  hdiicy  as  woU  as  a  littK'  saliva,  together  with  a  nilraite 
drop  of  formic  acid  which  acts  as  a  preservative.  The  need  of 
honey  in  the  hive  surpasses  that  of  |)oIlen,  and  the  honey-cells 
are  more  numerous  than  "bee-bread"  cells.  The  stored  honey 
and  pollen  serve  for  the  daily  food  of  the  workers,  the  drones, 
and  the  queen,  but  in  a  healthy  hive  there  is  a  suqilus  store, 
and  this  surplus  store  enables  the  community  of  honey-bees  to 
last  year  after  year,  whilst  the  existence  of,  say,  a  wasp  nest 
depends  on  the  success  of  a  single  individual  in  tiding  over  the 
winter  months.  Although  in  the  winter  the  activities  of  the 
hive  drop  to  a  minimum,  still  there  is  some  movement  of  the 
bees  and  so  food  is  imperative. 

The  fresh  nectar  poured  out  of  the  body  of  the  bee  contains 
80  per  cent  of  water  and  is  very  fluid.  Why  it  remains  in  the 
cell  and  does  not  pour  out  before  the  cell  is  "cap[)ed"  is  rather 
a  mystery.  Truly,  the  cells  are  tipped  a  little  upw^ards,  but 
not  enough  to  explain  this ;  later,  when  it  thickens  into  honey, 
it  may  be  said  to  be  too  viscous  to  flow  out,  yet  if  the  comb  be 
lightly  shaken  down,  it  comes  in  a  sweet  and  sticky  stream. 
One  of  the  most  interesting  factors  in  the  conversion  of  nectar 
to  honey  is  the  removal  of  the  superfluous  water.  The  worker- 
bees  after  a  hard  day  in  the  field  return  to  the  hive,  and  after 
depositing  their  evening  harvest,  take  their  stand  in  serried 
rows  and  begin  fanning  with  their  wings.  Tireless  and  ap- 
parently without  fatigue,  they  continue  this  exercise  hour  after 
hour  until  the  rising  of  the  sun  recalls  them  to  their  harvest 
fields.  A  good  hive  will  in  the  course  of  a  night  drive  out  of  a 
skip  an  amount  of  aqueous  vapor  equivalent  to  1.5  litres  of 
water,  and  so  gradually  the  amount  of  water  is  reduced  from  80 
per  cent  in  the  nectar  to  25  per  cent  in  the  honey.  Both  worker- 
cells  and  drone-cells  are  used  for  storing  honey,  and  if  the  supply 
necessitates  the  building  of  new  cells  to  house  the  precious 
fluid,  drone-cells  are  built,  for  they  are  easier  to  construct  and 
require  comparatively  less  wax. 

Dr.  Stadler  has  made  an  ingenious  calculation  as  to  the  num- 
ber of  journeys  a  worker-bee  makes  at  harvest  time,  and  arrives 
at  the  conclusion  that  each  bee  makes  between  seventy-nve  and 


THE  HONEY-BEE  8 1 

one  hundred  flights  a  day.  Even  bee  protoplasm  cannot  stand 
such  a  life.  Working  like  the  students  at  Osborne  or  Dart- 
mouth "at  the  double"  all  day,  standing  with  vibrant  wings  all 
night,  occupied  with  the  cares  of  the  hive  in  between  times, 
never  having  any  sleep,  never  taking  any  rest,  it  is  little  wonder 
that  the  frail  body  of  the  worker  is  at  the  height  of  the  season 
worn  out  in  five  or  six  weeks.  True  to  her  devotion  to  the 
cleanliness  of  the  hive,  she  usually  dies  outside  it,  but  if  by  any 
chance  she  dies  inside,  the  body  is  removed  by  the  survivers 
like  any  other  piece  of  lumber.  Virgil's  statement  put  into 
Enghsh  by  Dryden :  — 

"Their  friends  attend  the  hearse,  the  next  relations  mourn  " 

cannot  be  justified  even  by  poetic  licence.  Their  friends  and 
relations  are  totally  indifferent.  Bees  know  neither  love  nor 
regret. 

It  is  the  general  rule  amongst  the  social  Hymenoptera  that 
new  colonies  are  started  by  the  unaided  efforts  of  a  single  queen, 
but  this  rule  is  broken  by  the  honey-bee.  Here  the  queen, 
when  starting  a  new  colony,  is  accompanied  by  a  large  number 
of  workers  and  a  few  drones,  the  whole  constituting  the  swarm 
The  preliminaries  to  swarming  are  many ;  the  first  is  the  laying 
of  unfertiUzed  eggs  in  the  drone-cells,  old  or  new,  for  the  drones 
take  the  longest  time  in  reaching  maturity;  then  a  certain 
number  of  queen-cells  are  built  and  provided  with  fertilized 
eggs,  laid  one  after  another  so  that  they  will  be  ripe  for  entrance 
into  the  hive  at  successive  intervals  of  forty-eight  hours.  When 
once  the  cover  is  placed  on  the  first  of  these  royal  cells,  which 
hang  usually  to  the  number  of  six  or  eight  from  the  lower  edge 
of  a  comb,  with  the  mouth  downwards,  the  reigning  queen  be- 
comes restless.  She  intermits  her  egg-laying,  moves  uneasily 
hither  and  thither,  and  with  an  unbridled  jealousy  tries  to  break 
into  the  royal  cells  and  so  destroy  her  royal  offspring  and  pos- 
sible successors.  These,  however,  are  safely  guarded  by  the 
workers,  and  seldom  does  she  succeed.  If  the  weather  be 
favorable,  and  if  the  provision  of  honey  and  bee-bread  be  ample, 
the  workers  are  also  seized  with  the  demon  of  unrest.     Those 


8-  niSCLSSlO.WS  OI-    FACTS  AM)  IDEAS 

enRURcd  in  colk'clinjT  nectar  ami  honey  cease  their  lalxirsand 
remain  at  home.  On  a  still,  warm  day  in  May  or  June,  numerous 
bees  may  be  seen  resting  and  motionless  outside  the  hive ; 
these  are  joined  by  others,  and  gradually  they  all  collect  together 
and  hang  like  a  beard  in  front  of  the  hive.  More  bees  attach 
themselves  to  the  beard,  and  then  suddenly  the  whole  thing 
breaks  up  and  the  constituent  bees  pour  into  the  hive  and  till 
themselves  up  with  honey  as  a  pro\'ision  for  their  future  home. 
The  excitement  within  the  hive  increases,  the  noise  becomes 
louder  and  louder,  and  then  suddenly  a  vast  stream  of  bees, 
both  workers  and  drones,  with  their  queen,  pours  out  of  the 
mouth  of  the  liive  in  a  state  of  delirious  tumult.  Soon,  how- 
ever, they  settle  on  some  bough  or  wall  chosen  by  the  queen. 
Some  hang  to  the  support,  the  others  hang  on  to  them.  The 
queen  is  hidden  within  the  living,  seething  mass.  Here  the 
swarm  may  hang  for  hours  and  even  for  days,  but,  as  a  rule, 
within  a  few  hours  they  are  guided  by  certain  scouts,  who  have 
been  investigating  the  possibilities  of  the  neighborhood,  to  some 
hollow  tree  or  shelter  under  a  roof,  and  to  this  retreat  the  whole 
swarm  flies  by  the  shortest  possible  route.  The  workers  at 
once  set  to  work  to  clean  the  new  hive  and  to  prepare  the  comb, 
and  as  soon  as  possible  the  queen  resumes  her  interminable  egg- 
laying.  It  may  be  noted  that  whilst  thus  swarming,  the  queen 
sees  the  light  for  the  second  time  in  her  life.  When  swarming, 
bees  are  very  loath  to  sting,  and,  according  to  Latter,  should 
they  do  so,  the  sting  is  ''comparatively  innocuous."  An  aver- 
age swarm  is  about  the  size  of  a  football  and  weighs  about  four 
pounds. 

The  hive  which  the  swarm  has  left  has  for  the  time  no  queen, 
though  potentialities  of  royalty  exist  in  the  numerous  royal- 
cells.  As  soon  as  the  first  of  these  young  queens  is  ready  to 
emerge,  she  bites  through  the  cover  of  her  cell,  aided  by  some 
of  the  workers,  and  steps  into  the  hive ;  but  this  does  not  take 
place  until  eight  days  ha\e  elapsed  since  the  sMarming.  As 
soon  as  the  young  queen  has  been  cleaned  and  has  acquired  a 
little  strength,  and  her  wings  have  hardened,  she  begins  to  mo\'e 
about,  and  when  she  becomes  aware  of  the  other  royal-cells  with 


THE  HONEY-BEE  83 

the  pupas  of  her  sisters  therein,  she  becomes  violently  excited, 
utters  a  well-known  war-note,  and  attempts  to  tear  open  the 
cell  of  the  oldest.  Sometimes  this  is  permitted,  and  the  ruthless 
young  monarch  slays  with  her  sting  in  turn  the  whole  succession 
of  royal  infants.  Should  her  strength  fail  her,  the  slaughter  is 
continued  by  the  workers,  who  in  any  case  greedily  consume 
what  royal  jelly  is  left  in  the  cells,  and  draw  the  corpses  of  their 
victims  out  of  the  cells  and  cast  them  out  of  the  hive. 

This  process  of  slaughter  is,  however,  a  very  risky  proceeding, 
for  if  anything  should  happen  to  the  conquering  and  sole  re- 
maining queen  on  her  wedding  flight,  or  at  any  other  time,  and 
if  there  were  no  larvae  under  three  days  of  age  (these  can  be 
reared  into  queens  by  a  continuous  diet  of  royal  jelly),  the  hive 
would  become  queenless,  and  a  queenless  hive  rapidly  falls 
into  a  state  of  "death,  damnation,  and  despair."  Therefore 
the  bees  usually  guard  the  cells  until  the  first  queen  has  been 
fertilized  and  has  returned  to  the  hive,  and  also  until  it  has  been 
clearly  settled  that  a  second  swarming  is  not  to  take  place,  for 
in  that  case  the  first  hatched  queen  would  lead  the  swarm,  and 
one  of  her  sisters  would  be  wanted  to  replace  her  in  the  hive. 
Should  there  be  a  second  swarm,  it  will  centre  round  the  young 
queen  as  yet  unfertilized,  and  it  may  be  that  some  of  her  sisters 
may  then  escape  and  join  the  swarm,  in  which  case  it  either 
breaks  up  into  as  many  small  swarms  as  there  are  queens,  or 
the  queens  fight  till  but  one  remains,  or  the  workers  put  all  to 
death  save  one.  A  fight  between  two  queens  is  a  venomous 
and  a  deadly  affair.  Although  sisters,  although  members  of  the 
same  exalted  and  exiguous  caste,  they  seem  to  be  animated  by 
the  bitterest  hatred,  yet  so  strongly  implanted  in  their  being  is 
their  devotion  to  the  future  of  the  community,  that  when,  as 
they  sometimes  do,  they  get  into  a  mutually  murderous  position 
where  a  stroke  of  the  sting  of  each  would  kill  the  other,  they  im- 
mediately cease  fighting  and  retire  trembling  for  a  time,  ap- 
parently appalled  at  the  prospect  of  the  queenless  hive  which 
would  result  from  their  kiUing  each  other.  After  a  time,  how- 
ever, the  combat  is  renewed  and  one  or  other  is  slain. 

Sometimes,  when  a  second  queen  enters  the  hive  and  the 


84  DISCUSSIOXS  OF   FACTS  AXD  IDEAS 

reigning  queen  is  busy  la}ing  eggs,  ihe  presence  of  the  intruder 
is  concealed,  and  a  crowd  of  workers  surrounds  her  on  every 
side,-  "balling"  her  in  until  she  dies  of  hunger  and  sulTocation, 
but  they  never  sting  her  to  death. 

For  the  first  few  days  (from  two  to  six  after  her  birth)  the 
young  queen  shows  no  disposition  to  be  married.  Then  a 
change  occurs.  She  becomes  restless,  runs  to  the  hive  mouth 
and  back,  presently  makes  a  short  experimental  flight,  for  the 
first  time  seeing  the  sun  and  inflating  to  the  full  her  breathing 
tubes.  Soon  she  takes  wider  flights,  always  keeping  her  head 
directed  to  the  hive.  After  a  time  she  is  followed  by  a  group  of 
drones,  and  as  she  towers  into  space,  one  by  one  these  suitors 
drop  off  until  one,  the  strongest,  remains  to  mate  with  her  high 
up  in  the  heavens.  The  act  of  mating  is  fatal  to  the  male.  It 
is  thought  that  he  dies  of  nerve  shock.  Whatever  the  cause, 
most  of  his  body  falls  dead  to  the  earth,  but  he  leaves  part  of 
it  in  the  queen ;  this  can  only  be  removed  when  it  has  shrivelled 
up,  and  then,  in  some  cases,  only  by  the  aid  of  the  workers. 
The  fertilized  queen  returns  to  the  hive,  having  in  her  spernia- 
theca  no  less  than  200,000,000  spermatozoa,  a  supply  equal  to 
even  her  prodigious  fecundity. 

Once  the  queen  is  fertilized  and  has  begun  her  ceaseless  egg- 
laying,  the  drones  are  more  useless  than  ever.  They  have  always 
been  a  nuisance  in  the  hive,  devouring  the  best  honey,  hustling 
the  workers,  impeding  the  w'ork,  and  fouling  the  comb ;  for, 
unlike  the  workers,  who  can  only  rid  themselves  of  undigested 
food  when  on  the  wing,  the  drones  and  the  queen  deposit  their 
excreta  in  the  hive  for  the  workers  to  clear  away.  Useless,  and 
a  great  drain  on  the  hive,  they  are  yet  suffered  to  su^vi^'e  a 
little  while,  but  in  a  few  days  that  curious  socialistic  instinct 
that  persistently  impels  the  honey-bee  to  sacrifice  the  individual 
for  the  sake  of  the  community  —  "V esprit  de  la  ruche"  as 
Maeterlinck  calls  it  —  is  awakened,  and  the  workers  unite  to 
destroy  the  drones,  either  by  driving  them  forth,  or  by  forcing 
them  into  an  empty  comb  and  starving  them  to  death,  or  by 
savagely  attacking  them  with  sting  and  jaws,  till  they  are  killed 
outright. 


THE  PANAMA    CANAL  85 

The  same  ^'esprit  de  la  riiche,"  the  same  overwhelming  in- 
stinct to  provide  at  all  costs  for  the  continuance  of  the  race, 
causes  the  worker-bees  to  work  themselves  to  death  in  a  few 
weeks  for  the  sake  of  succeeding  generations,  and  condemns  the 
queen-bee  to  a  life  sentence,  which  often  takes  four  or  five 
years  to  work  out,  of  penal  servitude  in  pitchy  darkness. 


THE   PANAMA   CANAL  ^ 

James  Bryce 

Of  the  Canal  itself  a  few  words  must  now  be  said,  just  enough 
to  convey  some  preliminary  general  notion  of  it  to  those  who 
two  years  hence,  when  the  time  for  its  formal  opening  arrives, 
will  be  deluged  with  details. 

It  will  be  fifty  miles  in  length,  from  deep  water  to  deep 
water,  though  only  forty  from  tide-end  to  tide-end.  The 
minimum  bottom  width  will  be  three  hundred  feet,  the  minimum 
depth  forty-one  feet,  the  breadth  and  depth  being,  however, 
for  the  larger  part  of  its  length,  greater  than  these  figures.  Its 
highest  point  above  sea-level  will  be  eighty-five  feet  at  the  sur- 
face of  the  water  and  forty  feet  at  the  bottom,  the  depth  at 
this  point  being  forty- five  feet ;  i.e.  it  will  be  cut  down  through 
the  dividing  ridge  of  the  Continent  to  a  point  forty  feet  above 
the  two  oceans. 

The  simplest  way  to  realize  its  character  is  to  consider  it  as 
consisting  of  four  sections  which  I  will  call  (a)  the  Atlantic 
Level,  (b)  the  Lake,  (c)  the  Cutting,  and  (d)  the  Pacific  section 
(in  two  levels  separated  by  a  lock).  The  Atlantic  Level  is  a 
straight  channel,  unbroken  by  locks,  of  eight  miles,  from  deep 
water  at  the  mouth  of  the  shallow  Bay  of  Limon,  a  little  west 
of  Colon^  to  Gatun,  where  it  reaches  the  valley  of  the  Chagres 
River.  Now  the  Chagres  River  had  always  been  reckoned  as 
one  of  the  chief  difficulties  in  the  way  of  making  a  canal.     It 

'From  South  America  —  Observations  and  Impressions.  The  Macmillan  Com- 
pany.    Reprinted  by  permission. 


86  DiscLssio.xs  or  iacts  and  ideas 

occupied  the  bottom  of  thai  natural  tleprcssion  along  whidi  all 
surveyors  had  long  ago  perceived  tliat  any  canal  must  run. 
Hut  the  difi'iculty  of  widening  and  deepening  the  river  channel 
till  it  should  become  a  usable  canal,  was  a  formidable  one, 
because  in  the  wet  season  the  river  swells  to  an  unmanageable 
si/e  under  the  tropical  rains,  sometimes  rising  over  forty  feet  in 
twenty-four  hours.  This  difficulty  was  at  last  met  and  the 
stream  ingeniously  utilized  by  erecting  right  across  the  course 
of  the  Chagres  a  stupendous  dam  at  Gatun,  which  by  impound- 
ing the  water  of  the  river  turns  its  valley  into  a  lake.  This 
lake  will  have  along  the  central  channel  a  depth  of  from  eighty- 
five  to  forty-five  feet  of  water,  sufficient  for  the  largest  ship. 
At  the  Gatun  dam  there  are  three  locks,  built  of  concrete,  with 
a  total  rise  of  eighty-five  feet,  by  which  vessels  will  be  lifted  up 
into  the  lake.  The  lake  will  fill  not  only  the  valley  of  the 
Chagres  itself,  but  the  bottom  of  its  tributary  valleys  to  the 
east  and  west,  so  that  it  will  cover  164  square  miles  in  all,  and 
will  be  dotted  by  many  islands.  The  central  and  deepest  lines 
of  this  artificial  piece  of  water,  nearly  twenty-four  miles  long, 
is  the  second  of  our  four  canal  sections,  and  will  be  the  prettiest, 
for  the  banks  are  richly  wooded.  At  the  point  called  Bas 
Obispo,  where  the  Chagres  \-aIley,  which  has  been  running 
south-southeast  towards  the  Pacific  turns  away  to  the  north- 
east among  the  hills,  the  line  of  the  canal  leaves  the  Gatun 
river-lake,  and  we  enter  the  third  section,  which  I  have  called 
the  Cutting.  Here  hills  are  encountered ;  so  it  became  neces- 
sary, in  order  to  avoid  the  making  of  more  locks,  to  cut  deep 
into  the  central  line  of  the  continent,  with  its  ridge  of  rock 
which  connects  the  Cordilleras  of  the  southern  continent  with 
the  Sierras  of  the  northern.  After  five  miles  of  comparatively 
shallow  cutting  southward  from  the  Lake,  a  tall  and  steep  emi- 
nence, Gold  Hill,  the  continental  watershed,  its  top  665  feet 
high,  bars  the  way.  Through  it  there  has  been  carved  out  a 
mighty  gash,  the  "Culebra  Cut,"  of  which  more  anon.  A  little 
further  south,  eight  miles  from  the  Lake,  the  ground  begins  to 
fail  rapidly  towards  the  other  sea,  and  we  reach  the  fourth  or 
Pacific  section  at  a  point  called  Pedro  Miguel.     Here  is  a  lock 


THE  PANAMA   CANAL  87 

by  which  the  Canal  is  lowered  thirty  feet  to  another  but  much 
smaller  artificial  lake,  formed  by  a  long  dam  built  across  the 
valley  at  a  spot  called  Miraflores,  where  we  find  two  more 
locks,  by  which  vessels  will  be  lowered  fifty-five  feet  to  the  level 
of  the  Pacific.  Thence  the  Canal  runs  straight  out  into  the 
ocean,  here  so  shallow  that  a  deep-water  channel  has  been 
dredged  out  for  some  miles,  and  a  great  dike  or  mole  erected 
along  its  eastern  side  to  keep  the  southerly  current  from  silting 
up  the  harbor.  From  Pedro  Miguel  to  Miraflores  it  is  nearly 
two  miles,  and  from  the  locks  at  the  latter  to  the  Pacific  eight 
miles,  so  the  length  of  this  fourth  Pacific  section,  which,  unlike 
the  Atlantic  section,  is  on  two  different  levels  divided  by  the 
Miraflores  dam  and  locks,  is  ten  miles.  In  it  there  has  been 
comparatively  little  land  excavation,  because  the  ground  is  flat, 
though  a  great  deal  of  dredging,  both  to  carry  a  sea  channel 
out  through  the  shallow  bay  into  the  open  Pacific,  and  also  to 
provide  space  for  vessels  to  lie  and  load  or  discharge  without 
blocking  the  traffic. 

Thus  the  voyager  of  the  future,  in  the  ten  or  twelve  hours  of 
his  passage  from  ocean  to  ocean,  will  have  much  variety.  The 
level  light  of  the  fiery  tropic  dawn  will  fall  on  the  houses  of 
Colon  as  he  approaches  it  in  the  morning,  when  vessels  usually 
arrive.  When  his  ship  has  mounted  the  majestic  staircase  of 
the  three  Gatun  locks  from  the  Atlantic  level,  he  will  glide 
slowly  and  softly  along  the  waters  of  a  broad  lake  which  gradually 
narrows  toward  its  head,  a  lake  enclosed  by  rich  forests  of  that 
velvety  softness  one  sees  in  the  tropics,  with  vistas  of  forest- 
girt  islets  stretching  far  off  to  the  right  and  left  among  the  hills, 
a  welcome  change  from  the  restless  Caribbean  Sea  which  he  has 
left.  Then  the  mountains  will  close  in  upon  him,  steep  slopes 
of  grass  or  brushwood  rising  two  hundred  feet  above  him  as  he 
passes  through  the  Great  Cut.  From  the  level  of  the  Miguel 
lock  he  will  look  southward  down  the  broad  vale  that  opens  on 
the  ocean  flooded  with  the  light  of  the  decHning  sun,  and  see 
the  rocky  islets  rising,  between  which  in  the  twilight  his  course 
will  lie  out  into  the  vast  Pacific.  At  Suez  the  passage  from  sea 
to  sea  is  through  a  dreary  and  monotonous  waste  of  shifting 


SS  DISCUSSIOyS  OF   FACTS  A\D  IDEAS 

sand  and  barren  clay.  Here  one  is  for  a  few  hours  in  the  centre 
of  a  verdant  continent,  floating  on  smooth  waters,  shut  ofT  from 
sight  of  the  ocean  behind  and  the  ocean  before,  a  short  sweet 
present  of  tranquillity  between  a  stormy  past  and  a  stormy 
future. 

In  these  forty  miles  of  canal  (or  fifty  if  we  reckon  from  deep 
water  to  deep  water)  the  two  most  remarkable  pieces  of  engineer- 
ing work  are  the  gigantic  dam  (with  its  locks)  at  Gatun  and  the 
gigantic  cutting  at  Culebra,  each  the  hugest  of  its  kind  that 
the  world  has  to  show.  The  dam  is  nearly  a  mile  and  a  half 
long;  its  base  nearly  half  a  mile  thick,  and  it  is  400  feet  wide 
at  the  water  line  of  the  lake  which  it  will  support.  Each  of 
the  three  locks  is  double,  so  that  one  of  the  pair  can  be  used  by 
vessels  passing  from  north  to  south,  the  other  by  those  passing 
from  south  to  north.  Each  has  a  usable  length  of  1000  feet, 
a  usable  width  of  no  feet.  They  are  big  enough  in  length, 
width,  and  depth  for  the  largest  vessels  that  were  afloat  in  191 1. 
He  who  stands  inside  one  of  them  seems,  when  he  looks  up,  to 
be  at  the  bottom  of  a  rocky  glen,  "  a  canyon  of  cement."  Noth- 
ing less  than  an  earthquake  will  affect  them,  and  of  earthquakes 
there  is  no  record  in  this  region,  though  they  are  frequent  in 
Costa  Rica,  two  hundred  miles  away.  The  locks  will  be  worked, 
and  vessels  will  be  towed  through  them,  by  electric  power, 
which  is  to  be  generated  by  the  fall  of  the  Chagres  River  over 
the  spillway  which  carries  its  water  from  the  lake  to  the  Atlantic. 

The  great  Culebra  Cut  is  interesting  not  only  to  the  engineer, 
but  also  to  the  geologist,  as  being  what  he  calls  a  Section.  It 
is  the  deepest  open  cutting  an}-where  in  the  world,  and  shows 
curious  phenomena  in  the  injection  of  igneous  rocks,  apparently 
very  recent,  among  the  loose  sedimentary  beds,  chiefly  clays 
and  soft  sandstones  of  the  latest  tertiary  epoch.  A  trouble- 
some result,  partly  of  this  intermixture,  and  partly  of  the  fri- 
ability and  instability  not  only  of  the  sedimentary  strata  but 
also  of  some  of  the  volcanic  rocks,  has  been  noted  in  the  con- 
stant slips  and  slides  of  rock  and  earth  down  the  sides  of  the 
cutting  into  the  bed  of  the  canal  that  is  to  be.  This  source  of 
expense  and  delay  was  always  foreseen  by  those  who  knew  the 


THE  PANAMA    CANAL  89 

character  of  the  soil  and  the  power  of  torrential  tropical  rains, 
and  was  long  dwelt  upon  as  a  fatal  objection  to  a  sea-level 
canal.  It  has  caused  even  more  delay  and  more  expenditure 
than  was  expected.  But  it  has  now  been  overcome,  though  to 
avert  the  risk  of  future  damage  to  the  work  when  completed 
the  engineers  have  been  obliged  to  give  a  much  lower  slope  to 
the  sides  of  the  cutting  than  was  originally  contemplated,  so 
that  the  width  of  the  cutting  at  the  top  is  also  greater  than  had 
been  planned,  and  the  quantity  of  material  excavated  has  been 
correspondingly  larger.^  In  order  to  lessen  further  washing 
down,  the  slopes  will  be  sown  with  creeping  grasses  and  other 
plants  calculated  to  hold  the  soil. 

The  interior  of  the  Cuiebra  Cut  presented,  during  the  period 
of  excavation,  a  striking  sight.  Within  the  nine  miles  of  the 
whole  cutting,  two  hundred  miles  of  railroad  track  had  been 
laid  down  side  by  side,  some  on  the  lowest  level  on  terraces 
along  which  the  excavating  shovels  were  at  work.  Within  the 
deepest  part  of  the  cutting,  whose  length  is  less  than  a  mile, 
many  hundreds  of  railroad  construction  cars  and  many  thou- 
sands of  men  were  at  work,  some  busy  in  setting  dynamite 
charges  for  blasting,  some  cleaning  away  the  rubbish  scattered 
round  by  an  explosion,  some  working  the  huge  moving  shovels 
which  were  digging  into  the  softer  parts  of  the  hill  or  were  re- 
moving the  material  loosened  by  explosions,  the  rest  working 
the  trains  of  cars  that  were  perpetually  being  made  up  and 
run  out  of  the  cutting  at  each  end  to  dump  the  excavated  ma- 
terial wherever  it  was  needed  somewhere  along  the  line  of  the 
Canal.  Every  here  and  there  one  saw  little  puffs  of  steam, 
some  from  the  locomotives,  some  where  the  compressed  air  by 
which  power  was  applied  to  the  shovels  was  escaping  from  the 
pipes,  and  condensing  the  vapor-s^turated  atmosphere. 

There  is  something  in  the  magnitude  and  the  methods  of  this 
enterprise  which  a  poet  might  take  as  his  theme.     Never  before 

'  The  highest  point  of  excavation  at  Gold  Hill  is  534  feet  above  sea  level  and  the 
highest  elevation  of  the  original  surface  of  the  ground  along  the  centre  line  of  the 
Canal  was  312  feet  above  sea  level.  The  vertical  depth  of  the  cut  on  the  centre  line 
is  thus  272  feet,  the  bottom  of  the  cut  being  40  feet  above  sea  level. 


90  DISCUSSIOXS  OF  FACTS   ASD  IDEAS 

oil  our  planet  have  so  much  hil)or,  so  much  scientific  knowledge, 
and  so  much  executive  skill  been  concentrated  on  a  work  de- 
signed to  "bring  the  nations  nearer  to  one  another  and  serve  the 
interests  of  all  mankind. 


OX   THE   PHYSICAL   BASIS   OF    LIFE  » 

Thomas  Hexry  Huxley 

In  order  to  make  the  title  of  this  discourse  generally  intelli- 
gible, I  have  translated  the  term  "Protoplasm,"  which  is  the 
scientific  name  of  the  substance  of  which  I  am  about  to  speak, 
by  the  words  "the  physical  basis  of  life."  I  suppose  that,  to 
many,  the  idea  that  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  physical  basis, 
or  matter,  of  life  may  be  novel  —  so  widely  spread  is  the  con- 
ception of  life  as  a  something  which  works  through  matter,  but 
is  independent  of  it ;  and  even  those  who  are  aware  that  matter 
and  life  are  inseparably  connected,  may  not  be  prepared  for  the 
conclusion  plainly  suggested  by  the  phrase,  "//?c  physical  basis 
(^r  matter  of  life,''  that  there  is  some  one  kind  of  matter  which 
is  common  to  all  li\ing  beings,  and  that  their  endless  diversities 
are  bound  together  by  a  physical,  as  well  as  an  ideal,  unity. 
In  fact,  when  first  apprehended,  such  a  doctrine  as  this  appears 
almost  shocking  to  common  sense. 

What,  truly,  can  seem  to  be  more  obviously  different  from 
one  another,  in  faculty,  in  form,  and  in  substance,  than  the 
various  kinds  of  li\'ing  beings?  What  community  of  faculty 
can  there  be  between  the  brightly  colored  lichen,  which  so 
nearly  resembles  a  mere  mineral  incrustation  of  the  bare  rock 
on  which  it  grows,  and  the  painter,  to  whom  it  is  instinct  \nth 
beauty,  or  the  botanist,  whom  it  feeds  wth  knowledge  ? 

Again,  think  of  the  microscopic  fungus  —  a  mere  iBfinitesimal 
ovoid  particle,  which  finds  space  and  duration  enough  to  mul- 
tiply into  countless  millions  in  the  body  of  a  living  fly;  and 
then  of  the  wtalth  of  foliage,  the  luxuriance  of  flower  and  fruit, 

'  From  Lay  Sermons.     D.  Appleton  &  Company,  1870. 


ON   THE  PHYSICAL  BASIS  OF  LIFE 


91 


v;hich  lies  between  this  bald  sketch  of  a  plant  and  the  giant 
pine  of  California,  towering  to  the  dimensions  of  a  cathedral 
spire,  or  the  Indian  fig,  which  covers  acres  with  its  profound 
shadow,  and  endures  while  nations  and  empires  come  and  go 
around  its  vast  circumference.  Or,  turning  to  the  other  half  of 
the  world  of  life,  picture  to  yourselves  the  great  Finner  whale, 
hugest  of  beasts  that  live,  or  have  lived,  disporting  his  eighty  or 
ninety  feet  of  bone,  muscle,  and  blubber,  with  easy  roll,  among 
waves  in  which  the  stoutest  ship  that  ever  left  dockyard  would 
flounder  hopelessly  ;  and  contrast  him  with  the  invisible  animal- 
cules —  mere  gelatinous  specks,  multitudes  of  which  could,  in 
fact,  dance  upon  the  point  of  a  needle  with  the  same  ease  as  the 
angels  of  the  Schoolmen  could,  in  imagination.  With  these 
images  before  your  minds,  you  may  well  ask,  what  community 
of  form,  or  structure,  is  there  between  the  animalcule  and  the 
whale ;  or  between  the  fungus  and  the  fig-tree  ?  And,  a  fortiori, 
between  all  four  ? 

Finally,  if  we  regard  substance,  or  material  composition, 
what  hidden  bond  can  connect  the  flower  which  a  girl  wears  in 
her  hair  and  the  blood  which  courses  through  her  youthful 
veins ;  or,  what  is  there  in  common  between  the  dense  and  re- 
sisting mass  of  the  oak,  or  the  strong  fabric  of  the  tortoise,  and 
those  broad  disks  of  glassy  jelly  which  may  be  seen  pulsating 
through  the  waters  of  a  calm  sea,  but  which  drain  away  to  mere 
films  in  the  hand  which  raises  them  out  of  their  element  ? 

Such  objections  as  these  must,  I  think,  arise  in  the  mind  of 
every  one  who  ponders,  for  the  first  time,  upon  the  conception 
of  a  single  physical  basis  of  life  underlying  all  the  diversities  of 
vital  existence ;  but  I  propose  to  demonstrate  to  you  that,  not- 
withstanding these  apparent  difficulties,  a  threefold  unity  — 
namely  a  unity  of  power  or  faculty,  a  unity  of  form,  and  a  unity 
of  substantial  composition  —  does  pervade  the  whole  living 
world. 

No  very  abstruse  argumentation  is  needed,  in  the  first  place, 
to  prove  that  the  powers,  or  faculties,  of  all  kinds  of  living 
matter,  diverse  as  they  may  be  in  degree,  are  substantially 
similar  in  kind. 


92  DISCUSSIOSS  OF  FACTS  AND  IDEAS 

Goethe  has  condensed  a  survey  of  all  powers  of  mankind  into 
the  well-known  epigram  :  — 

"  Warum  ircibt  sich  das  \'olk  so  und  sehrcit  ?     Es  will  sich  crnahrcn, 
Kinder  zeugon,  und  die  niihrcn  so  gut  cs  vermag. 

*  *  *  *  *  In  * 

Wcitcr  hringt  es  kein  Mensch,  stell'  er  sich  wie  cr  auch  will." 

In  physiological  language  this  means,  that  all  the  multifarious 
and  complicated  activities  of  man  are  comprehensible  under 
three  categories.  Either  they  are  immediately  directed  toward 
the  maintenance  and  development  of  the  body,  or  they  effect 
transitory  changes  in  the  relative  positions  of  parts  of  the  body, 
or  they  tend  towards  the  continuance  of  the  species.  Even 
those  manifestations  of  intellect,  of  feehng,  and  of  will,  which 
we  rightly  name  the  higher  faculties,  are  not  excluded  from  this 
clas.sification,  inasmuch  as  to  every  one  but  the  subject  of  them, 
they  are  known  only  as  transitory  changes  in  the  relative 
positions  of  parts  of  the  body.  Speech,  gesture,  and  every 
other  form  of  human  action  are,  in  the  long  run,  resolvable 
into  muscular  contraction,  and  muscular  contraction  is  but  a 
transitory  change  in  the  relative  positions  of  the  parts  of  a 
muscle.  But  the  scheme  which  is  large  enough  to  embrace  the 
activ-ities  of  the  highest  form  of  life,  covers  all  those  of  the 
lower  creatures.  The  lowest  plant,  or  animalcule,  feeds,  grows, 
and  reproduces  its  kind.  In  addition,  all  animals  manifest 
those  transitory  changes  of  form  which  we  class  under  irritability 
and  contractility ;  and,  it  is  more  than  probable,  that  when 
the  vegetable  v.orld  is  thoroughly  explored,  we  shall  find  all 
plants  in  possession  of  the  same  powers,  at  one  time  or  other 
of  their  existence. 

I  am  not  now  alluding  to  such  phenomena,  at  once  rare  and 
conspicuous,  as  those  exhibited  hy  the  leaflets  of  the  sensitive 
plants,  or  the  stamens  of  the  barberry,  but  to  much  more  widely 
spread,  and,  at  the  same  time,  more  subtle  and  hidden,  mani- 
festations of  vegetable  contractility.  You  are  doubtless  aware 
that  the  common  nettle  owes  its  stinging  property  to  the  in- 
numerable  stifif   and   needle-like,   though  exquisitely   delicate, 


ON   THE  PHYSICAL  BASIS  OF  LIFE  93 

hairs  which  cover  its  surface.  Each  stinging-needle  tapers  from 
a  broad  base  to  a  slender  summit,  which,  though  rounded  at  the 
end,  is  of  such  microscopic  fineness  that  it  readily  penetrates, 
and  breaks  off  in,  the  skin.  The  whole  hair  consists  of  a  very 
delicate  outer  case  of  wood,  closely  applied  to  the  inner  surface 
of  which  is  a  layer  of  semi-fluid  matter,  full  of  innumerable 
granules  of  extreme  minuteness.  This  semi-fluid  lining  is  pro- 
toplasm, which  thus  constitutes  a  kind  of  bag,  full  of  a  limpid 
liquid,  and  roughly  corresponding  in  form  with  the  interior  of 
the  hair  which  it  fills.  When  viewed  with  a  sufficiently  high 
magnifying  power,  the  protoplasmic  layer  of  the  nettle  hair  is 
seen  to  be  in  a  condition  of  unceasing  activity.  Local  contrac- 
tions of  the  whole  thickness  of  its  substance  pass  slowly  and 
gradually  from  point  to  point,  and  give  rise  to  the  appearance 
of  progressive  waves,  just  as  the  bending  of  successive  stalks  of 
corn  by  a  breeze  produces  the  apparent  billows  of  a  cornfield. 

But,  in  addition  to  these  movements,  and  independently  of 
them,  the  granules  are  driven,  in  relatively  rapid  streams, 
through  channels  in  the  protoplasm  which  seem  to  have  a  con- 
siderable amount  of  persistence.  Most  commonly,  the  currents 
in  adjacent  parts  of  the  protoplasm  take  similar  directions; 
and,  thus,  there  is  a  general  stream  up  one  side  of  the  hair  and 
down  the  other.  But  this  does  not  prevent  the  existence  of 
partial  currents  which  take  different  routes ;  and  sometimes 
trains  of  granules  may  be  seen  coursing  swiftly  in  opposite 
directions  within  a  twenty-thousandth  of  an  inch  of  one  an- 
other; while,  occasionally,  opposite  streams  come  into  direct 
collision,  and,  after  a  longer  or  shorter  struggle,  one  predomi- 
nates. The  cause  of  these  currents  seems  to  lie  in  contractions 
of  the  protoplasm  which  bounds  the  channels  in  which  they 
flow,  but  which  are  so  minute  that  the  best  microscopes  show 
only  their  effects,  and  not  themselves. 

The  spectacle  afforded  by  the  wonderful  energies  prisoned 
within  the  compass  of  the  microscopic  hair  of  a  plant,  which 
we  commonly  regard  as  a  merely  passive  organism,  is  not  easily 
forgotten  by  one  who  has  watched  its  display,  continued  hour 
after  hour,  without  pause  or  sign  of  weakening.     The  possible 


04  DISCUSSIONS  0/    I- ACTS  AND  IDEAS 

complexity  of  many  other  organic  forms,  seemingly  as  simple 
as  the  protoplasm  of  the  nettle,  dawTis  upon  one ;  and  the 
comparison  of  such  a  protoplasm  to  a  body  with  an  internal 
circulation,  which  has  lieen  put  forward  by  an  eminent  physiol- 
ogist, loses  much  of  its  startling  character.  Currents  similar 
to  those  of  the  hairs  of  the  nettle  have  been  observed  in  a  great 
multitude  of  very  different  plants,  and  weighty  authorities  have 
suggested  that  they  probably  occur,  in  more  or  less  perfection, 
in  all  young  vegetable  cells.  If  such  be  the  case,  the  wonderful 
noonday  silence  of  a  tropical  forest  is,  after  all,  due  only  to  the 
dulncss  of  our  hearing ;  and  could  our  ears  catch  the  murmurs 
of  these  tiny  Maelstroms,  as  they  whirl  in  the  innumerable 
myriads  of  living  cells  which  constitute  each  tree,  we  should  be 
stunned,  as  with  the  roar  of  a  great  city. 

Among  the  lower  plants,  it  is  the  rule  rather  than  the  excep- 
tion, that  contractility  should  be  still  more  openly  manifested 
at  some  periods  of  their  existence.  The  protoplasm  of  Alga 
and  Fungi  becomes,  under  many  circumstances,  partially,  or 
completely,  freed  from  its  woody  case,  and  exhibits  movements 
of  its  whole  mass,  or  is  propelled  by  the  contractility  of  one,  or 
moi':,  hair-like  prolongations  of  its  body,  which  are  called  vibra- 
tile  ciUa.  And,  so  far  as  the  conditions  of  the  manifestation 
of  the  phenomena  of  contractility  have  yet  been  studied,  they 
are  the  same  for  the  plant  as  for  the  animal.  Heat  and  electric 
shocks  influence  both,  and  in  the  same  way,  though  it  may  be 
in  different  degrees.  It  is  by  no  means  my  intention  to  suggest 
that  there  is  no  difference  in  faculty  between  the  lowest  plant 
and  the  highest,  or  between  plants  and  animals.  But  the 
difference  between  the  powers  of  the  lowest  plant,  or  animal, 
and  those  of  the  highest,  is  one  of  degree,  not  of  kind,  and 
depends,  as  Milne-Edwards  long  ago  so  well  pointed  out,  upon 
the  extent  to  which  the  principle  of  the  division  of  labor  is 
carried  out  in  the  living  economy.  In  the  lowest  organism  all 
parts  are  competent  to  perform  all  functions,  and  one  and  the 
same  portion  of  protoplasm  may  successfully  take  on  the  func- 
tion of  feeding,  moving,  or  reproducing  apparatus.  In  the 
highest,  on  the  contrary,  a  great  number  of  parts  combine  to 


ON    THE  PHYSICAL  BASIS  OF  LIFE  95 

perform  each  function,  each  part  doing  its  allotted  share  of 
the  work  with  greater  accuracy  and  efficiency,  but  being  useless 
for  any  other  purpose. 

On  the  other  hand,  notwithstanding  all  the  fundamental  re- 
semblances which  exist  between  the  powers  of  the  protoplasm  in 
plants  and  in  animals,  they  present  a  striking  difference  (to 
which  I  shall  advert  more  at  length  presently),  in  the  fact  that 
plants  can  manufacture  fresh  protoplasm  out  of  mineral  com- 
pounds, whereas  animals  are  obliged  to  procure  it  ready-made, 
and  hence,  in  the  long  run,  depend  upon  plants.  Upon  what 
condition  this  difference  in  the  powers  of  the  two  great  divisions 
of  the  world  of  life  depends,  nothing  is  at  present  known. 

With  such  qualifications  as  arise  out  of  the  last-mentioned 
fact,  it  may  be  truly  said  that  the  acts  of  all  living  things  are 
fundamentally  one.  Is  any  such  unity  predicable  of  their  forms  ? 
Let  us  seek  in  easily  verified  facts  for  a  reply  to  this  question. 
If  a  drop  of  blood  be  drawn  by  pricking  one's  finger,  and  viewed 
with  proper  precautions,  and  under  a  sufficiently  high  micro- 
scopic power,  there  will  be  seen,  among  the  innumerable  multi- 
tude of  little,  circular,  discoidal  bodies,  or  corpuscles,  which 
float  in  it  and  give  it  its  color,  a  comparatively  small  number  of 
colorless  corpuscles,  of  somewhat  larger  size  and  very  irregular 
shape.  If  the  drop  of  blood  be  kept  at  the  temperature  of  the 
body,  these  colorless  corpuscles  will  be  seen  to  exhibit  a  marvel- 
lous activity,  changing  their  forms  with  great  rapidity,  drawing 
in  and  thrusting  out  prolongations  of  their  substance,  and  creep- 
ing about  as  if  they  were  independent  organisms. 

The  substance  which  is  thus  active  is  a  mass  of  protoplasm, 
and  its  activity  differs  in  detail,  rather  than  in  principle,  from 
that  of  the  protoplasm  of  the  nettle.  Under  sundry  circum- 
stances the  corpuscle  dies  and  becomes  distended  into  a  round 
mass,  in  the  midst  of  which  is  seen  a  smaller  spherical  body, 
which  existed,  but  was  more  or  less  hidden,  in  the  living  cor- 
puscle, and  is  called  its  nucleus.  Corpuscles  of  essentially 
similar  structure  are  to  be  found  in  the  skin,  in  the  lining  of 
the  mouth,  and  scattered  through  the  whole  framework  of  the 
body.     Nay,  more ;    in  the    earliest  condition  of    the  human 


00  DFSCL'SSIO.WS   or   I-ACTS   AXD   IDEAS 

organism,  in  that  state  in  which  it  has  but  just  Ijcconic  cUs- 
tinguishable  from  the  egg  in  which  it  arises,  it  is  nothing  but 
an  aggregation  of  such  cori)Uscles,  and  every  organ  of  the  body 
was,  once,  no  more  than  such  an  aggregation. 

Thus  a  nucleated  mass  of  protophism  turns  out  to  be  what 
may  be  termed  the  structural  unit  of  the  human  body.  As  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  body,  in  its  earliest  state,  is  a  mere  multiple 
of  such  units;  and  in  its  perfect  condition,  it  is  a  nuiltiplc  of 
such  units,  variously  modified. 

But  does  the  formula  which  expresses  the  essential  structural 
character  of  the  highest  animal  cover  all  the  rest,  as  the  state- 
ment of  its  powers  and  faculties  covered  all  the  others  ?  Very 
nearly.  Beast  and  fowl,  reptile  and  fish,  mollusk,  worm,  and 
poh"pe,  are  all  composed  of  structural  units  of  the  same  char- 
acter, namely,  masses  of  protoplasm  with  a  nucleus.  There  are 
sundry  very  low  animals,  each  of  which,  structurally,  is  a  mere 
colorless  blood-corpuscle,  leading  an  independent  life.  But, 
at  the  very  bottom  of  the  animal  scale,  even  this  simplicity 
becomes  simplified,  and  all  the  phenomena  of  life  are  mani- 
fested by  a  particle  of  protoplasm  without  a  nucleus.  Nor  are 
such  organisms  insignificant  by  reason  of  their  want  of  com- 
plexity. It  is  a  fair  question  whether  the  protoplasm  of  those 
simplest  forms  of  life,  which  people  an  immense  extent  of  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  would  not  outweigh  that  of  all  the  higher 
Uving  beings  which  inhabit  the  land  put  together.  And  in 
ancient  times,  no  less  than  at  the  present  day,  such  living  beings 
as  these  ha\e  been  the  greatest  of  rock  builders. 

What  has  been  said  of  the  animal  world  is  no  less  true  of  plants. 
Embedded  in  the  protoplasm  at  the  broad,  or  attached,  end  of 
the  nettle  hair,  there  lies  a  spheroidal  nucleus.  Careful  examina- 
tion further  proves  that  the  whole  substance  of  the  nettle  is  made 
up  of  a  repetition  of  such  masses  of  nucleated  protoplasm,  each 
contained  in  a  wooden  case,  which  is  modified  in  form,  some- 
times into  a  woody  fibre,  sometimes  into  a  duct  or  spiral  vessel, 
sometimes  into  a  pollen  grain,  or  an  ovule.  Traced  back  to  its 
earliest  state,  the  nettle  arises  as  the  man  does,  in  a  particle  of 
nucleated  protoplasm.     And  in  the  lowest  plants,  as  in  the  lowest 


ON   THE  PHYSICAL  BASIS  OF  LIFE  97 

animals,  a  single  mass  of  such  protoplasm  may  constitute 
the  whole  plant,  or  the  protoplasm  may  exist  without  a  nucleus. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  may  well  be  asked,  how  is  one 
mass  of  non-nucleated  protoplasm  to  be  distinguished  from  an- 
other? why  call  one  "plant"  and  the  other  "animal"? 

The  only  reply  is  that,  so  far  as  form  is  concerned,  plants  and 
animals  are  not  separable,  and  that,  in  many  cases,  it  is  a  mere 
matter  of  convention  whether  we  call  a  given  organism  an  ani- 
mal or  a  plant.  There  is  a  living  body  called  Jithalium  septiciim, 
which  appears  upon  decaying  vegetable  substances,  and  in  one 
of  its  forms  is  common  upon  the  surfaces  of  tan-pits.  In  this 
condition  it  is,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  a  fungus,  and  formerly 
was  always  regarded  as  such  ;  but  the  remarkable  investigations 
of  De  Bary  have  shown  that,  in  another  condition,  the  Mthalium 
is  an  actively  locomotive  creature,  and  takes  in  solid  matters, 
upon  which,  apparently,  it  feeds,  thus  exhibiting  the  most 
characteristic  feature  of  animality.  Is  this  a  plant ;  or  is  it  an 
animal  ?  Is  it  both ;  or  is  it  neither  ?  Some  decide  in  favor  of 
the  last  supposition,  and  establish  an  intermediate  kingdom, 
a  sort  of  biological  No  Man's  Land  for  all  these  questionable 
forms.  But,  as  it  is  admittedly  impossible  to  draw  any  distinct 
boundary  line  between  this  no  man's  land  and  the  vegetable 
world  on  the  one  hand,  or  the  animal,  on  the  other,  it  appears 
to  me  that  this  proceeding  merely  doubles  the  difficulty  which, 
before,  was  single. 

Protoplasm,  simple  or  nucleated,  is  the  formal  basis  of  all 
life.  It  is  the  clay  of  the  potter:  which,  bake  it  and  paint  it 
as  he  will,  remains  clay,  separated  by  artifice,  and  not  by  nature, 
from  the  commonest  brick  or  sun-dried  clod. 

Thus  it  becomes  clear  that  all  living  powers  are  cognate, 
and  that  all  living  forms  are  fundamentally  of  one  character. 
The  researches  of  the  chemist  have  revealed  a  no  less  striking 
uniformity  of  material  composition  in  living  matter. 

In  perfect  strictness,  it  is  true  that  chemical  investigation 
can  tell  us  little  or  nothing,  directly,  of  the  composition  of 
living  matter,  inasmuch  as  such  matter  must  needs  die  in  the 
act  of  analysis,  —  and  upon  this  very  obvious  ground,  objec- 


98  DISCUSSIONS  OF  FACTS  AND  IDEAS 

tions,  which  1  confess  seem  to  me  to  be  somewhat  frivolous, 
have  been  raised  to  the  drawing  of  any  conclusions  whatever 
respect  ins:  the  composition  of  actually  living  matter,  from  that 
of  the  deail  matter  of  life,  which  alone  is  accessible  to  us.  But 
objectors  of  this  class  do  not  seem  to  reflect  that  it  is  also,  in 
strictness,  true  that  we  know  nothing  about  the  composition 
of  any  body  whatever,  as  it  is.  The  statement  that  a  crystal 
of  calc-spar  consists  of  carbonate  of  lime  is  quite  true,  if  we 
only  mean  that,  by  appropriate  processes,  it  may  be  resolved 
into  carbonic  acid  and  quicklime.  If  you  pass  the  same  car- 
bonic acid  over  the  very  quicklime  thus  obtained,  you  will  obtain 
carbonate  of  lime  again ;  but  it  will  not  be  calc-spar,  nor  any- 
thing like  it.  Can  it,  therefore,  be  said  that  chemical  analysis 
teaches  nothing  about  the  chemical  composition  of  calc-spar  ? 
Such  a  statement  would  be  absurd;  but  it  is  hardly  more  so 
than  the  talk  one  occasionally  hears  about  the  uselessness  of 
applying  the  results  of  chemical  analysis  to  the  living  bodies 
which  have  pelded  them. 

One  fact,  at  any  rate,  is  out  of  reach  of  such  refinements,  and 
this  is,  that  all  the  forms  of  protoplasm  which  have  yet  been 
examined  contain  the  four  elements,  carbon,  hydrogen,  oxygen, 
and  nitrogen,  in  very  complex  union,  and  that  they  behave 
similarly  towards  several  reagents.  To  this  complex  combina- 
tion, the  nature  of  which  has  never  been  determined  with  exact- 
ness, the  name  of  Protein  has  been  applied.  And  if  we  use  this 
term  with  such  caution  as  may  properly  arise  out  of  our  com- 
parative ignorance  of  the  things  for  which  it  stands,  it  may  be 
truly  said,  that  all  protoplasm  is  proteinaceous,  or,  as  the  white, 
or  albumen,  of  an  egg  is  one  of  the  commonest  examples  of  a 
nearly  pure  protein  matter,  we  may  say  that  all  living  matter 
is  more  or  less  albuminoid. 

Perhaps  it  would  not  yet  be  safe  to  say  that  all  forms  of 
protoplasm  are  affected  by  the  direct  action  of  electric  shocks ; 
and  yet  the  number  of  cases  in  which  the  contraction  of  pro- 
toplasm is  shown  to  be  affected  by  this  agency  increases  every 
day. 

Nor  can  it  be  afiSrmed  with  perfect  confidence,  that  all  forms 


ENGLAND    UNDER    THE  STUARTS 


99 


of  protoplasm  are  liable  to  undergo  that  peculiar  coagulation 
at  a  temperature  of  4o°-5o°  centigrade,  which  has  been  called 
"heat-stiffening,"  though  Kiihne's  beautiful  researches  have 
proved  this  occurrence  to  take  place  in  so  many  and  such 
diverse  living  beings,  that  it  is  hardly  rash  to  expect  that  the 
law  holds  good  for  all. 

Enough  has  perhaps  been  said  to  prove  the  existence  of  a 
general  uniformity  in  the  character  of  the  protoplasm,  or  physical 
basis,  of  life,  in  whatever  group  of  living  beings  it  may  be  studied. 
But  it  will  be  understood  that  this  general  uniformity  by  no 
means  excludes  any  amount  of  special  modifications  of  the 
fundamental  substance.  The  mineral,  carbonate  of  lime, 
assumes  an  immense  diversity  of  characters,  though  no  one 
doubts  that,  under  all  the  Protean  changes,  it  is  one  and  the 
same  thing. 


THE  MIDDLE  AND  LOWER  CLASSES  IN  ENGLAND 
UNDER  THE   STUARTS  ^ 

George  Macaulay  Trevelyan 

At  the  opening  of  the  twentieth  century  England  may  be 
compared  to  a  garden,  a  ground  cut  up  for  purposes  of  cultivation 
by  hedgerows  and  lines  of  trees.  The  regularity  of  this  garden 
is  pleasantly  broken  by  woods  and  coppices  artificially  main- 
tained by  man  for  his  use  or  pleasure.  But  through  this  fertile 
territory,  the  new  economy  of  industrialism  is  pushing  out  its 
iron  claws,  changing  vast  tracts  of  garden  into  town,  and  alter- 
ing the  character  and  appearance  of  the  rest  by  introducing, 
even  in  agricultural  districts,  materials  and  houses  of  uniform 
type.  That  part  of  the  population  which  lives  permanently 
under  the  influence  of  industrial  sights  and  sounds  is  larger  than 
that  which  lives  in  the  garden ;  and  even  the  inhabitants  of  the 
rural  districts  have  lost  their  own  characteristic  ideals  of  life 


1  From  England  under  the  Stuarts.     G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.     Reprinted  by  permis- 
sion. 


» 


IOC  3f  FACTS  ASD  IDEAS  | 

Tfn'ier  the  aJi-nie^  -  ~'rp  ^4  the  tmrns-     One  cncKfitMa 


her 

A 


-e  of  France  a.rn-^  Gennaxiv  to-dav.     B-cct 


me  z. 

eve~  —  -    •  —  .- — - '''" 

iss  J  1  tree;   tiw;  ssxien 


t&e  nmetee:  — es  i  ascendecL  tfie  turoiae, 


-^'greai  'Traes,  bat  by  va^  trarte  of  wii.ieniess  m 


comnnrrL  ^  acairceiv'  aiffiected.  tJae  Ifcvres 

§ii  -  1^  bajoe  •;:  -s  to  wMck  it 

^^3■T:  impr:;Tr*id  the  appearajjce  of  nature,  fcr 


:.::  xsr  «o>- 


The  ippearxrce  c«  tbe  cocntiy  ^i<  r .:  -::^:ed 


oat  strife  aud  iirac^  ^tb>><it  z»tsce-    Saie  by  ssde  -sriii  :_v< 
:  hid  bes-cn  ro  like  pLic; 


In  zoedsev^  Frigbnd  tbe  cora  laisd  ot  e«aty  towi^^  ox»- 
sisted  04  xa  izEUGDteose  open  &^d.  i>ei:"^  "  "  ^  ~"r  essdij^  ■  "~ 

hc-i^es:itm»scxL!tiv:itedbytiie€»c--  vi*e?»e«'< 

catde  ot  the  larboste  village.    At  barv>e»4  . 
off  tiat  part  oj  tbe  ftdd  vbkb  bek>«»:  .  .-  .  ..     _  -- 

Tteior  period  many  of  tbese  opes.  f.eiis  -w^if  brosbea  up  iad 
sarrouiKkdbybc-  :  -  -    "rliurcor.  .^  -.^ 

£irat>  of  die  nKx\-  Ve^  : 

vdnoed  to  cv^a^pietioa.    i: 

nrjt  raro  Stuarts  wsore  th... ..,..,..  - 

stili  opea  land,  ctiltivited  by  tb?  cvNKittvc  ecorr?  :    - 

after  tbe  metbdds  porstted  by  tbetr 
Tvler,    And  tbe  vbofct  acresse  o£ 


I02  DISCL'SSIOXS  OF  FACTS   A.\D  IDEAS 

and  unenclosed,  scarcely  equalled  the  wilderness  still  unre- 
claimed.' 

The  change  from  the  common  cultivation  of  open  strips  of 
field  to  individual  responsibility  for  pieces  of  enclosed  ground, 
brought  to  the  front  two  figures  characteristic  of  English  agri- 
cultural history  —  the  tenant-farmer  and  the  yeoman.  These 
two  classes  existed  under  the  old  system,  but  wherever  the  new 
order  was  established  they  gained  a  new  importance.  For 
on  the  farmer  and  the  yeoman  rested  the  first  opportunity  for 
initiative  in  those  improvements  which  comj)act  farms  and 
hedges  had  at  last  rendered  possible.  Individual  farmers  could 
do  nothing  to  introduce  new  methods  of  agriculture  on  that  half 
of  the  corn  land  of  England  which  was  still  unenclosed,  and 
cultivated  by  the  common  efforts  of  the  whole  village.  On  the 
newly  enclosed  lands  the  farmers  of  the  seventeenth  century 
had  some  power  of  improvement,  but  not  on  a  large  scale.  For 
it  was  not  yet  the  fashion,  as  it  became  in  the  next  century,  for 
landlords  to  sink  great  sums  of  capital  in  scientific  improve- 
ments, and  the  farmers,  left  to  themseh^es,  had  little  capital 
and  less  education.  The  great  day  of  the  tenant-farmer  was 
yet  to  come ;  and  in  the  Stuart  epoch  he  was  neither  wealthy, 
independent,  nor  interesting. 

The  yeomen,  who  were  computed  to  be  more  numerous  than 
the  tenant-farmers,-  were  at  least  their  match  in  agricultural 

'  Gregory  King  calculated  that  in  the  reign  of  William  III,  out  of  thirty-nine 
million  acres  in  England,  one  million  was  water  and  road  or  roadside,  ten  millions 
were  "heaths,  moors,  mountains,  and  barren  lands,"  three  "woods  and  coppices," 
three  "forests,  parks,  and  commons."  (Political  Observations,  1606,  Chalmers'  ed., 
1810,  p.  52.)  The  Comment  of  his  friend  Davcnant  (Balance  of  Trade,  i6gg),  that 
"anno  1600"  "  there  were  more  forests,  woods,  commons,  coppices,  and  waste  ground  " 
than  in  their  own  day,  is  correct  (see  Nisbet,  Our  Forests  and  Woodlands,  1900,  pp. 
72-80).  Indeed  as  early  as  1662  the  spread  of  tillage,  and  of  manufacture  by  fur- 
naces, had  exciterl  the  alarm  of  the  Dockyard  .\uthorities  and  of  the  Royal  Society, 
and  Evelyn  wrote  his  Sylva  to  recommend  them  to  make  plantations  by  way  of 
supplying  the  ground  lately  lost  by  natural  fortwt. 

*  Gregory  King  estimated  the  yeomen,  at  the  end  of  the  Stuart  period,  when  their 
decline  had  already  begun,  at  180,000  families,  or  one-sixth  of  the  total  number  of 
families  in  the  countrv' ;  the  farmers  at  150,000  families.  His  tables  calculating  the 
numbers  of  each  class  can  be  found  in  his  own  Observations,  1696,  and  in  Davenant's 
Balance  of  Trade,  1699,  p.  23,  where  the  number  of  yeomen  families  is  placed  at 
160,000. 


i 


ENGLAND   UNDER   THE  STUARTS  103 

enterprise,  and  were  not,  like  their  rivals,  discouraged  by  the 
prospect  of  raised  rents  and  fines  on  their  improvements.  What 
little  advance  in  methods  was  made  at  this  period  was  due 
either  to  the  wealthier  members  of  the  yeoman  class,  or  to 
gentlemen  who,  like  Cromwell,  worked  their  own  land.  But 
the  want  of  capital  and  the  want  of  education  delayed  any  such 
improvement  in  methods  as  might  have  been  expected  to  follow 
at  once,  wherever  the  system  of  common  tillage  was  abandoned.^ 
But  while  in  the  eye  of  the  pure  economist  the  yeoman  was 
scarcely  in  advance  of  the  farmer,  his  social  standing  was  far 
more  enviable.  In  an  age  when  no  one  even  pretended  to  think 
it  wrong  for  a  man  to  enforce  political  and  religious  conformity 
among  those  over  whose  fortunes  he  had  control,  the  yeoman 
reaping  his  own  field  enjoyed  an  independence  denied  to  many 
pursuing  more  lucrative  and  more  cultivated  professions.  To 
be  counted  as  a  yeoman  a  man  must  be  able  to  spend  405.  a  year 
derived  from  his  own  freehold  land.-  This  was  also  the  quali- 
fication for  the  Parliamentary  franchise  in  the  counties,  a  priv- 
ilege which  the  yeoman  exercised  with  more  complete  freedom 
than  the  tenant-farmer  and  field  laborer  in  our  own  day.  So 
far  from  desiring  the  protection  of  secrecy  at  the  poll,  the  yeo- 
men took  a  jolly  pride  in  voting,  as  eventually  in  fighting,  on 
the  opposite  side  to  the  neighboring  squire. 

The  yeomanry  (wrote  Fuller  in  the  reign  of  Charles  I)  is  an  estate 
of  people  almost  peculiar  to  England.  France  and  Italy  are  like 
a  die  which  hath  no  point  between  sink  and  ace,  nobUity  and 
peasantry.  .  .  .  The  yeoman  wears  russet  clothes,  but  makes 
golden  payment,  having  tin  in  his  buttons  and  silver  in  his  pocket. 
...     In  his  own  country  he  is  a  main  man  in  Juries.     He  seldom 

'  Methods  of  caltle  breeding  were  improved,  and  root  crops  introduced  to  feed 
the  cattle.  But  turnips  were  only  introduced  in  some  places,  and  even  then  were 
badly  cultivated.  Artificial  grasses  were  discussed  but  not  introduced.  Little  was 
(lone  to  improve  the  cultivation  of  cereals,  partly  perhaps  because  the  Dutch,  whose 
methods  were  most  studied  and  imitated,  knew  more  about  cattle,  roots,  and  grasses 
than  about  corn.  (Cunningham,  Growth  oj  English  Induslry  and  Commerce.  Modern 
Times  (ed.  igoj),  pp.  545,  546,  s4q,  550.) 

^  And  yet  .some  of  the  more  privileged  copyholders  of  the  North  of  England,  like 
the  Cumberland  "statesmen,"  must  be  counted  in  the  yeomen  class. 


I04  Discussioxs  or  facts  axd  ideas 

goes  far  abroad,  and  his  credit  stretches  further  than  his  travel.  He 
goes  not  to  London,  but  sc-dcfcudcudo,  to  save  himself  a  fine,  being 
returntxi  of  a  Jury,  where  seeing  tlie  King  once,  he  prays  for  him 
ever  aftcrwanls.' 

Such  pious  and  simple  yeomen  were  the  backbone  of  Charles's 
cause  in  the  Western  shires  when  the  hour  of  need  came;  but 
in  East  Anglia  the  jjrayers  of  the  yeomen  were  sent  uj)  less  often 
for  the  King's  health  than  for  the  King's  conversion. 

There  are  few  things  in  the  history  of  Europe  so  unaccountable 
as  the  ebb  and  flow  of  political  agitation  among  the  peasantry. 
At  the  close  of  the  Middle  Ages  the  tillers  of  the  soil  rose  in 
revolt  against  feudal  .society,  first  in  France  and  England  during 
the  Hundred  Years'  War,  then  towards  the  beginning  of  the 
Lutheran  movement,  in  Germany  and  in  the  Hungarian  King- 
dom. Yet  after  these  strange  outbreaks,  the  peasantry  of  the 
continent  relapsed  into  a  long  quiescence  under  wrongs  which 
they  had  once  refused  to  endure,  until  the  great  Revolution  in 
French  society  aroused  in  the  ancient  villages  of  many  distant 
lands,  hopes  and  passions  that  had  been  buried  for  centuries 
in  the  soil.  Nor  was  there  in  England  any  agitation  among 
the  peasantry  during  the  Stuart  epoch.  In  the  reign  of  Edward 
VI  the  enclosures  had  caused  local  assemblies  of  armed  peasants, 
not  wholly  unlike,  in  theory  and  in  spirit,  to  the  more  general 
rising  of  1381 ;  but  from  these  last  stirrings  of  mediaeval  revolt 
down  to  the  time  of  Cobbett,  the  social  agitator  was  almost 
unknown  on  the  \dllage  green.  Even  during  the  Common- 
wealth, when  30.000  political  pamphlets  were  issued,  and  all 
men  were  invited  by  the  spirit  of  the  age  to  question  the  very 
basis  of  social  conventions,  there  was  no  important  movement 
among  the  peasantry  on  their  own  behalf.'-     But  although  these 

'  The  Holy  State,  Book  II,  Chap.  XVIII. 

'The  score  of  "diggers  on  St.  George's  Hill"  initiated  an  interesting  but  wholly 
powerless  communistic  movement  in  1640  (see  G.  P.  Gooch,  English  Democratic 
Ideas  in  the  Seventeenth  Century,  189S  (Cambridge  Historical  Essays,  No.  X),  pp. 
2i4-225,andp.  282,  note,  below).  The  only  other  stirring  of  peasant  revolt  through- 
out the  Stuart  period  was  some  unimportant  rioting  in  1607  in  Warwickshire  and 
Leicestershire,  where  enclosure  for  pasturage  was  still  in  progress  after  it  had  ceased 
elsewhere,  and  where  the  fashionable  rage  for  deer-parks  made  further  inroads  on 


ENGLAND   UNDER   THE  STUARTS  105 

centuries  of  social  peace  in  England  corresponded  in  time  with 
the  same  phenomenon  on  the  continent,  the  English  peasant  was 
not  resting  in  the  same  status  as  his  brother  across  the  channel. 
The  French  and  German  peasant  was  a  serf ;  the  English  peasant 
was  now,  by  law,  a  freeman.  The  French  peasant  was  pre- 
paring a  bright  future  for  his  descendants  by  acquiring  land, 
but  at  present  his  own  position  was  unenviable :  the  wars  of 
religion  in  France  and  Germany,  followed  by  the  endless  cam- 
paigns dictated  by  the  proud  policy  of  the  House  of  Bourbon, 
reduced  the  tillers  of  the  soil  to  a  state  of  misery  such  as  in  a 
former  age  had  caused  the  terrible  outbreak  of  the  Jacquerie 
to  interrupt  the  wars  of  Froissart.  But  in  peaceful  England 
the  economic  effect  of  the  brief  war  between  Charles  and  his 
Parliament  was  to  raise  the  wage  of  the  agricultural  laborer. 
English  travellers  were  shocked  at  the  "wooden  shoes  and 
straw  hats"  of  the  foreign  peasantry,  and  the  "grass  herbs  and 
roots"  which  was  too  often  their  only  food.^ 

But  though  the  English  field  laborer  was  ahead  of  the  German 
and  French  in  economic  and  legal  position,  we  must  not  ascribe 
the  abeyance  of  rural  agitation  so  much  to  the  absence  of  rural 
grievances,  as  to  the  division  of  class  interests  and  the  want  of 
leadership  from  above.  The  farmers  and  yeomen  were  now 
more  divided  off  from  the  agricultural  laborer,  and  more  con- 
tented with  their  own  economic  and  social  position  than  in  the 
days  of  Wat  Tyler.  These  two  classes,  thus  already  ranged 
on  the  side  of  social  conservatism,  formed  in  the  Stuart 
epoch  a  far  larger  proportion  of  the  whole  agricultural  com- 
munity than  they  form  to-day.  Society  in  England  was 
based  on  the  stable  and  prosperous  foundation  of  a  very 
large  number  of  small  farms  and  small  estates.  The  evils  in- 
sei)arable  from  private  property  in  land,  the  loss  of  liberty  which 
it  too  often  inflicts  on  those  who  have  to  live  and  work  on  the 
land  of  others,  were  in  those  days  limited  by  the  high  proportion 
of  landowners  to  the  total  population. 

agricultural  land.  But  though  the  peasants  pulled  down  some  fences,  the  affair 
scarcely  amounted  to  a  rising. 

1  Arber's  Reprints,  viii,  Howell's  Instructions,  p.  74. 


IO()  DISCUSSIONS  OF  FACTS  AND  IDEAS 

Ikit  even  then  ihe  iigricullural  laborer  for  hire  represented  the 
most  numerous  class.  The  English  peasant,  though  badly 
paid,  was  in  some  cases  well  fed  by  his  emjiloyer.  The  "servant 
in  husbandry' "'  only  went  into  a  separate  cottage  when  he  married. 
Until  then  he  boarded  in  the  farm-house,  and  partook  freely 
at  the  family  table  of  the  staple  dish  of  meat,  though  not  always 
of  the  puddings  and  delicacies.  There  was  a  closer  contact 
between  master  and  men-  than  now ;  most  of  the  farmers  and 
yeomen  were  small  and  ujipretentious  people,  lixing  on  intimate 
terms  with  their  ser\-ants,  whose  families  had  often  been  on  the 
same  farm  for  generations. 

The  food  of  the  farm-house,  which  the  unmarried  "servant 
in  husbandry"  shared,  varied  according  to  each  season  of  the 
year,  with  its  traditional  fasts  and  feasts.  In  Lent  all  ate  fish  — 
fresh,  if  near  seas  and  rivers,  but  salted,  if  in  dry  and  upland 
districts.  For  meat  was  prohibited,  both  by  immemorial 
custom,  which  must  in  many  places  have  still  been  in  part 
religious,  and  by  the  statutes  of  Protestant  Parliaments.  Those 
shrewd  legislators  continued  to  enforce  the  observance  of  Lent, 
not,  as  they  were  careful  to  state,  for  superstitious  reasons,  but 
to  encourage  the  fisheries  as  the  great  school  of  seamanship  and 
national  defence.  But  the  chief  reason  why  the  Lenten  fast 
was  still  observed  was  because  the  ordinary  rural  ^  household 
had  no  meat  to  hand  at  that  time  of  year  except  the  flitch  of 
bacon  and  the  beef  that  had  been  slaughtered  and  salted  last 
Martinmas  Day  (nth  November).  At  midsummer  fresh  beef 
and  mutton  was  killed  amid  general  rejoicings,  and  continued 
to  grace  the  tables  until  winter.  At  Christmas,  during  the 
"twelve  days"  of  the  year  when  least  was  to  be  gained  by  labor 
in  the  fields,  the  agricultural  world  made  holiday,  feasting  on 
collars  of  brawn,  fowls,  turkeys,  mince-pies  and  plum-pottage, 
besides  nameless  dishes,  which  the  park-forester  was  not  in- 
vited to  share  unless  he  came  to  court  the  honest  yeoman's 
daughter ;  the  roasting  piece  of  beef  was  stuck  with  rosemary, 
and  though  Jeremiah  Carpenter  standing  by  the  spit  testified 

'  Town  butchers  sometimes  killed  by  stealth  in  the  forbidden  season  {Court  and 
Times  of  Charles  I,  1848,  ii,  p.  72). 


ENGLAND   UNDER   THE  STUARTS  107 

concerning  meats  offered  to  idols,  yet  notwithstanding  surely 
he  ate  thereof.  Compared  to  other  sorts  of  food,  there  was 
abundance  of  meat  to  be  had  in  old  England,  for  besides  flocks 
of  sheep,  and  herds  of  cattle  and  pigs,  the  country-side  swarmed 
with  rabbits,  hares,  and  birds  of  all  kinds,  which,  as  the  game- 
laws  then  stood,  were  the  legitimate  prey  of  the  yeomen  over 
whose  land  they  strayed.  The  farm,  which  had  to  supply  all 
the  food  of  its  inmates,  except  perhaps  a  little  bad  fish  during 
Lent,  could  boast  of  a  few  vegetables  in  the  garden  but  none  in 
the  fields.  Fruit  was  more  common ;  strawberries,  raspberries, 
and  gooseberries  had  been  grown  in  farm  gardens  fifty  years 
before  James  came  to  the  throne.^ 

But  the  abundance  of  meat  food  procurable  off  the  farm  is  not 
the  only  reason  why  it  is  unsafe  to  judge  of  the  real  condition 
of  the  agricultural  laborer  solely  from  the  statistics  of  wages 
and  prices.^  Common  land  for  pasturage  of  cows,  pigs,  and 
poultry,  common  rights  of  collecting  fuel  and  fowling  on  moor 
and  waste,  were  an  important  part  of  the  cottagers'  livelihood, 
though  already  encroached  upon  by  deer-park  enclosures,  and 
destined  to  extinction  in  the  great  robbery  of  the  poor  by  the 
rich  at  the  close  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Moreover,  the  wages 
of  the  head  of  the  cottar  family  might  be  augmented  by  those 
of  his  wife  and  children,  who  were  often  separately  employed 
and  paid  by  the  farmers.  In  haytime  and  harvest  the  whole 
population  turned  out ;  and  the  mothers  worked,  putting  their 
babies  to  play  together  in  a  corner  of  the  busy  field.     At  most 

■  Cunningham,  Growth  of  English  Industry  and  Commerce  (ed.  1802),  p.  ig3. 
W.  A.  S.  Hewins,  English  Trade  and  Finance,  pp.  88-96.  A.  H.  Hamilton,  Quarter 
Sessions,  from  Elizabeth  to  Anne  (1878),  p.  14.  Also  see  Tusser's  rhymes  mSomers' 
Tracts,  iii,  for  an  intimate  account  of  farm  life  in  the  middle  of  the  Tudor  period. 
Meat  was  so  common  that  foreigners  in  the  year  1602  remarked  with  surprise  that 
the  I'Lnglish  rejected  the  entrails  and  feet  for  the  table  (Diary  of  the  Duke  of  Stettin 
in  Transactions  of  the  Royal  Historical  Society,  1892,  p.  47). 

'^  .Agricultural  wages  were  generally  somewhere  between  35.  and  55.  a  week  (when 
food  was  not  given),  but  rose  slowly  throughout  the  century.  Wheat,  varying  very 
greatly  from  year  to  year  and  county  to  county,  was  generally  between  20.?.  and  50.V., 
the  average  price,  1600-1610,  being  34.S.  Oid. ;  and  1620-1630  licing  436-.  o\d. 
(Miss  Leonard,  Early  History  of  English  Poor  Relief,  1900,  pp.  145,  301,  198,  igg. 
Hamilton,  Quarter  Sessions  from  Elizahcth  to  Anne,  pp.  12-14,  163.  Hewins,  English 
Trade  and  Finance,  p.  86.     Thorold  Rogers,  Six  Centuries,  pp.  391-394,  426,  427). 


loS  Discrssroxs  or  facts  and  ideas 

other  times  throughout  the  year  tlie  unmarried  girls  were  em- 
ployed, as  now,  at  certain  kinds  of  agricultural  labor,  but  not 
at  the  more  severe  ditching  and  carr\-ing.  That  last  sacrilice 
of  poverty  was  sixired.  English  gentlemen  going  out  to  join 
Prince  Charles  at  Madrid,  were  shocked  at  the  sight  of  the 
Spanish  women  staggering  under  loads,  and  going  through  that 
round  of  labor  which  brought  the  women  of  some  of  the  most 
beautiful  races  of  Europe  to  premature  old  age.^ 

But  besides  their  work  in  the  fields,  country  women  were 
largely  employed  in  industry.  The  cloth  manufacture  was 
organized  by  the  "clothiers"  of  the  towns ;  but  much  labor  was 
carried  on  in  distant  cottages,  each  of  which  was  visited  by  the 
clothier  on  his  periodic  rounds.  The  old  woolpack  inns  of 
England  recall  the  time  when  it  was  common  to  meet,  round  the 
turning  of  a  country  lane,  a  train  of  horses  laden  with  sacks  of 
wool  hanging  to  the  ground  on  either  side,  or  a  clothier  riding 
into  market  with  pieces  of  cloth  upon  his  saddle-bow.  In  this 
and  other  employments  boys  and  girls  were  set  to  work  at  an 
early  age.  Although  the  state  of  things  among  the  families  of 
the  continental  peasantry  was  perhaps  worse,  yet  English 
women  and  children  were  overworked  long  before  the  era  of  the 
factory  system. 

Under  the  first  two  Stuarts  all  classes  who  lived  on  the  land, 
and  yet  more  those  who  were  gathered  in  the  towns,  were  in 
perpetual  terror  of  plague.  Disease  and  infant  mortality  pre- 
vented the  rapid  increase  of  the  population.  Medicine,  as 
commonly  practiced,  was  a  formulated  superstition  rather  than 
a  science ;  rules  of  health  were  little  understood ;  sanitar}  habits 
were  free  and  filthy  among  rich  as  well  as  poor.  Our  ancestors 
washed  little,  and  their  standard  of  public  decency  in  trivialities 
was  that  of  some  modern  nations  which  we  now  readily  condemn. 
Prudery  was  rare  even  among  Puritans;  and  cleanliness  even 
among  courtiers,  who  compounded  by  free  use  of  oils  and  scents. 
Drinking-water  was  often  contaminated,  and  the  danger  seldom 
recognized.  Little  value  was  set  on  fresh  air  indoors.  The 
population,  though  thinly  scattered  on  the  soil,  was  closely 

'  Memoirs  of  (he  V'erney  Family,  i,  p.  78. 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS 


109 


packed  in  the  houses.  Servants  and  apprentices  generally 
slept  in  holes  among  the  rafters,  and  industry  was  often  con- 
ducted in  the  crowded  dweUing-rooms  of  the  family.  Many  of 
the  worst  conditions  of  slum  life  existed  in  a  small  and  chiefly 
rural  population,  who  had,  however,  the  supreme  advantage 
of  open  air  and  the  beauties  of  nature  outside  their  door.  It  is 
not  possible  to  know  whether  the  general  standard  of  physique 
was  higher  or  lower  than  it  is  in  the  present  day  under  con- 
ditions so  much  better  and  so  much  worse. 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  ^ 

WooDROw  Wilson 

There  has  been  a  change  of  government.  It  began  two 
years  ago,  when  the  House  of  Representatives  became  Demo- 
cratic by  a  decisive  majority.  It  has  now  been  completed. 
The  Senate  about  to  assemble  will  also  be  Democratic.  The 
offices  of  President  and  Vice-President  have  been  put  into  the 
hands  of  Democrats.  What  does  the  change  mean?  That 
is  the  question  that  is  uppermost  in  our  minds  to-day.  That  is 
the  question  I  am  going  to  try  to  answer,  in  order,  if  I  may, 
to  interpret  the  occasion. 

It  means  much  more  than  the  mere  success  of  a  party.  The 
success  of  a  party  means  little  except  when  the  Nation  is  using 
that  party  for  a  large  and  definite  purpose.  No  one  can  mistake 
the  purpose  for  which  the  Nation  now  seeks  to  use  the  Democratic 
Party.  It  seeks  to  use  it  to  interpret  a  change  in  its  own  plans 
and  point  of  view.  Some  old  things  with  which  we  had  grown 
familiar,  and  which  had  begun  to  creep  into  the  very  habit  of 
our  thought  and  of  our  lives,  have  altered  their  aspect  as  we  have 
latterly  looked  critically  upon  them,  with  fresh,  awakened  eyes ; 
have  dropped  their  disguises  and  shown  themselves  alien  and 
sinister.  Some  new  things,  as  we  look  frankly  upon  them, 
willing  to  comprehend  their  real  character,  have  come  to  assiune 

1  Delivered  at  the  Capitol,  March  4,  1913. 


no  DiscLssioys  OF  r.icrs  and  ideas 

the  aspect  of  things  lonj;  believed  in  and  familiar,  slutT  of  our 
own  convictions.  We  have  l)een  refreshed  by  a  now  insi;i;ht 
into  our  own  hfe. 

We  see  that,  in  many  things,  that  life  is  very  great.  It  is 
incomparably  great  in  its  material  aspects,  in  its  body  of  wealth, 
in  the  diversity  and  sweep  of  its  energy,  in  the  industries  which 
have  been  conceived  and  built  up  by  the  genius  of  individual 
men  and  the  limitless  enterprise  of  groups  of  men.  It  is  great, 
also,  very  great,  in  its  moral  force.  Nowhere  else  in  the  world 
have  noble  men  and  women  exhibited  in  more  striking  forms 
the  beauty  and  the  energy  of  sympathy  and  helpfulness  and 
counsel  in  their  efforts  to  rectify  wrong,  alle\iate  suffering,  and 
set  the  weak  in  the  way  of  strength  and  hope.  We  have  built 
up,  moreover,  a  great  system  of  government,  which  has  stood 
through  a  long  age  as  in  many  respects  a  model  for  those  who 
seek  to  set  liberty  upon  foundations  that  will  endure  against 
fortuitous  change,  against  storm  and  accident.  Our  life  con- 
tains ever}'  great  thing,  and  contains  it  in  rich  abundance. 

But  the  evil  has  come  with  the  good,  and  much  fine  gold  has 
been  corroded.  With  riches  has  come  inexcusable  waste. 
We  have  squandered  a  great  part  of  what  we  might  have  used, 
and  have  not  stopped  to  conserve  the  exceeding  bounty  of  nature, 
without  which  our  genius  for  enterprise  would  have  been  worth- 
less and  impotent,  scorning  to  be  careful,  shamefully  prodigal 
as  well  as  admirably  efficient.  We  have  been  proud  of  our 
industrial  achievements,  but  we  have  not  hitherto  stopped 
thoughtfully  enough  to  count  the  human  cost,  the  cost  of  lives 
snuffed  out,  of  energies  overtaxed  and  broken,  the  fearful 
physical  and  spiritual  cost  to  the  men  and  women  and  children 
upon  whom  the  dead  weight  and  burden  of  it  all  has  fallen 
pitilessly  the  years  through.  The  groans  and  agony  of  it  all  had 
not  yet  reached  our  ears,  the  solemn,  moving  undertone  of  our 
life,  coming  up  out  of  the  mines  and  factories  and  out  of  every 
home  where  the  struggle  had  its  intimate  and  familiar  seat. 
With  the  great  Government  went  many  deep  secret  things 
which  we  too  long  delayed  to  look  into  and  scrutinize  with  candid, 
fearless  eyes.     The  great  Government  we  loved  has  too  often 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  III 

been  made  use  of  for  private  and  selfish  purposes,  and  those 
who  used  it  had  forgotten  the  people. 

At  last  a  vision  has  been  vouchsafed  us  of  our  life  as  a  whole. 
We  see  the  bad  with  the  good,  the  debased  and  decadent  with 
the  sound  and  vital.  With  this  vision  we  approach  new  affairs. 
Our  duty  is  to  cleanse,  to  reconsider,  to  restore,  to  correct  the 
evil  without  impairing  the  good,  to  purify  and  humanize  every 
process  of  our  common  life  without  weakening  or  sentimentaliz- 
ing it.  There  has  been  something  crude  and  heartless  and  un- 
feeling in  our  haste  to  succeed  and  be  great.  Our  thought  has 
been  "Let  every  man  look  out  for  himself,  let  every  generation 
look  out  for  itself,"  while  we  reared  giant  machinery  which  made 
it  impossible  that  any  but  those  who  stood  at  the  levers  of  con- 
trol should  have  a  chance  to  look  out  for  themselves.  We 
had  not  forgotten  our  morals.  We  remembered  well  enough 
that  we  had  set  up  a  policy  which  was  meant  to  serve  the  hum- 
blest as  well  as  the  most  powerful,  with  an  eye  single  to  the 
standards  of  justice  and  fair  play,  and  remembered  it  with 
pride.     But  we  were  very  heedless  and  in  a  hurry  to  be  great. 

We  have  come  now  to  the  sober  second  thpught.  The  scales 
of  heedlessness  have  fallen  from  our  eyes.  We  have  made  up 
our  minds  to  square  every  process  of  our  national  life  again  with 
the  standards  we  so  proudly  set  up  at  the  beginning  and  have 
always  carried  at  our  hearts.     Our  work  is  a  work  of  restoration. 

We  have  itemized  with  some  degree  of  particularity  the  things 
that  ought  to  be  altered  and  here  are  some  of  the  chief  items : 
A  tariff  which  cuts  us  off  from  our  proper  part  in  the  commerce 
of  the  world,  violates  the  just  principles  of  taxation,  and  makes 
the  Government  a  facile  instrument  in  the  hands  of  private 
interests ;  a  banking  and  currency  system  based  upon  the  neces- 
sity of  the  Government  to  sell  its  bonds  fifty  years  ago  and 
perfectly  adapted  to  concentrating  cash  and  restricting  credits ; 
an  industrial  system  which,  take  it  on  all  its  sides,  financial  as 
well  as  administrative,  holds  capital  in  leading  strings,  restricts 
the  liberties  and  limits  the  opportunities  of  labor,  and  exploits, 
without  renewing  or  conserving,  the  natural  resources  of  the 
country;  a  body  of  agricultural  activities  never  yet  given  the 


112  DISCUSSIONS  OF  FACTS   AXD   IDEAS 

efficiency  of  great  business  undertakings  or  served  as  it  should 
be  through  the  instrumontahty  of  science  taken  directly  to  the 
farm,  or  afforded  the  facilities  of  crecUt  best  suited  to  its  practical 
needs;  watercourses  undeveloped,  waste  places  unreclaimed, 
forests  untended,  fast  disappearing  without  plan  or  prospect  of 
renewal,  unregarded  waste  heaps  at  every  mine.  We  ha\e 
studied,  as  perhai^s  no  other  nation  has,  the  most  elTective  means 
of  production,  but  we  have  not  studied  cost  or  economy  as  we 
should,  either  as  organizers  of  industry,  as  statesmen,  or  as 
individuals. 

Nor  have  we  studied  and  perfected  the  means  by  which  govern- 
ment may  be  put  at  the  service  of  humanity,  in  safeguarding 
the  health  of  the  Nation,  the  health  of  its  men  and  its  women 
and  its  children,  as  well  as  their  rights  in  the  struggle  for  existence. 
This  is  no  sentimental  duty.  The  firm  basis  of  government 
is  justice,  not  pity.  These  are  matters  of  justice.  There  can 
be  no  equality  of  opportunity,  the  first  essential  of  justice  in 
the  body  poHtic,  if  men  and  women  and  children  be  not  shielded 
in  their  lives,  their  very  vitality,  from  the  consequences  of  great 
industrial  and  social  processes  which  they  cannot  alter,  control, 
or  singly  cope  with.  Society  must  see  to  it  that  it  does  not 
itself  crush  or  weaken  or  damage  its  own  constituent  parts. 
The  first  duty  of  law  is  to  keep  sound  the  society  it  serves. 
Sanitary  laws,  pure  food  laws,  and  laws  determining  conditions 
of  labor  w^hich  indi\aduals  are  powerless  to  determine  for  them- 
selves, are  intimate  parts  of  the  very  business  of  justice  and  legal 
efficiency. 

These  are  some  of  the  things  we  ought  to  do,  and  not  leave 
the  others  undone,  the  old-fashioned,  never- to-be-neglected, 
fundamental  safeguarding  of  property  and  of  individual  right. 
This  is  the  high  enterprise  of  the  new  day :  To  lift  everything 
that  concerns  our  life  as  a  Nation  to  the  light  that  shines  from 
the  hearthfire  of  every  man's  conscience  and  vision  of  the  right. 
It  is  inconceivable  that  we  should  do  this  as  partisans;  it  is 
inconceivable  we  should  do  it  in  ignorance  of  the  facts  as  they 
are,  or  in  blind  haste.  We  shall  restore,  not  destroy.  We 
shall  deal  with  our  economic  system  as  it  is  and  as  it  may  be 


INAUGURAL  ADDRESS  II3 

modified,  not  as  it  might  be  if  we  had  a  clean  sheet  of  paper  to 
write  upon ;  and  step  by  step  we  shall  make  it  what  it  should  be, 
in  the  spirit  of  those  who  question  their  own  wisdom  and  seek 
counsel  and  knowledge,  not  shallow  self-satisfaction  or  the 
excitement  of  excursions  whither  they  cannot  tell.  Justice, 
and  only  justice,  shall  always  be  our  motto. 

And  yet  it  will  be  no  cool  process  of  mere  science.  The  Nation 
has  been  deeply  stirred,  stirred  by  a  solemn  passion,  stirred  by 
the  knowledge  of  wrong,  of  ideals  lost,  of  government  too  often 
debauched  and  made  an  instrument  of  evil.  The  feelings  with 
which  we  face  this  new  age  of  right  and  opportunity  sweep  across 
our  heartstrings  like  some  air  out  of  God's  own  presence,  where 
justice  and  mercy  are  reconciled  and  the  judge  and  the  brother 
are  one.  We  know  our  task  to  be  no  mere  task  of  politics,  but 
a  task  which  shall  search  us  through  and  through,  whether  we 
be  able  to  understand  our  time  and  the  need  of  our  people, 
whether  we  be  indeed  their  spokesmen  and  interpreters,  whether 
we  have  the  pure  heart  to  comprehend  and  the  rectified  will  to 
choose  our  high  course  of  action. 

This  is  not  a  day  of  triumph ;  it  is  a  day  of  dedication.  Here 
muster,  not  the  forces  of  party,  but  the  forces  of  humanity. 
Men's  hearts  wait  upon  us ;  men's  lives  hang  in  the  balance ; 
men's  hopes  call  upon  us  to  say  what  we  will  do.  Who  shall 
live  up  to  the  great  trust  ?  Who  dares  fail  to  try  ?  I  summon 
all  honest  men,  all  patriotic,  all  forward-looking  men,  to  my  side. 
God  helping  me,  I  will  not  fail  them,  if  they  will  but  counsel 
and  sustain  me  ! 


LINCOLN  AS   MORE  THAN  AN  AMERICAN  ^ 

Herbert  Croly 

Lincoln's  services  to  his  country  have  been  rewarded  with 
such  abundant  appreciation  that  it  may  seem  superfluous  to 

■  From  The  Promise  of  American  Life.     The  Macmillan  Company,  1909.     Re- 
printed by  permission. 
I 


114  DISCL'SSIO.XS  OF  FACTS  ASD  IDEAS 

insist  upH»n  them  once  ajj;ain  ;  hut  I  bt'licvc  that  from  the  point 
of  \it'w  of  this  book  an  even  higher  vahie  may  be  placed,  if  not 
upon  his  patriotic  service,  at  least  upon  his  j)ersonal  worth. 
The  Union  might  well  have  been  saved  and  slavery  extinguished 
without  his  assistance ;  but  the  life  of  no  other  American  haij 
revealed  with  anything  like  the  same  completeness  the  peculiar 
moral  promise  of  genuine  democracy.  He  shows  us  by  the  full 
but  unconscious  integrity  of  his  example  the  kind  of  himian 
excellence  which  a  political  and  social  democracy  may  and  should 
fashion  ;  and  its  most  grateful  and  hopeful  aspect  is,  not  merely 
that  there  is  something  partially  American  about  the  manner 
of  his  excellence,  but  that  it  can  be  fairly  compared  with  the 
classic  types  of  consummate  personal  distinction. 

To  all  appearance  nobody  could  have  been  more  than  Abraham 
Lincoln  a  man  of  his  own  time  and  place.  Until  1858  his  outer 
life  ran  much  in  the  same  groove  as  that  of  hundreds  of  other 
Western  politicians  and  lawyers.  Beginning  as  a  poor  and 
ignorant  boy,  even  less  provided  Avith  props  and  stepping-stones 
than  were  his  associates,  he  had  worked  his  way  to  a  position 
of  ordinary  professional  and  political  distinction.  He  was  not, 
like  Douglas,  a  brilliant  success.  He  was  not,  like  Grant,  an 
apparently  hopeless  failure.  He  had  achieved  as  much  and  as 
little  as  hundreds  of  others  had  achieved.  He  was  respected 
by  his  neighbors  as  an  honest  man  and  as  a  competent  lawyer. 
They  credited  him  with  ability,  but  not  to  any  extraordinary 
extent.  No  one  would  have  pointed  him  out  as  a  remarkable 
and  distinguished  man.  He  had  shown  himself  to  be  desirous 
of  recognition  and  influence;  but  ambition  had  not  been  the 
compelling  motive  in  his  life.  In  most  respects  his  ideas, 
interests,  and  standards  were  precisely  the  same  as  those  of 
his  associates.  He  accepted  with  them  the  fabric  of  traditional 
American  political  thought  and  the  ordinary  standards  of  con- 
temporary political  morality.  He  had  none  of  the  moral  strenu- 
ousness  of  the  reformer,  none  of  the  exclusiveness  of  a  man 
whose  purposes  and  ideas  were  consciously  perched  higher  than 
those  of  his  neighbors.  Probably  the  majority  of  his  more 
successful  associates  classed  him  as  a  good  and  able  man  who 


LINCOLN  AS  MORE   THAN  AN  AMERICAN  115 

was  somewhat  lacking  in  ambition  and  had  too  much  of  a  dis- 
position to  loaf.  He  was  most  at  home,  not  in  his  own  house, 
but  in  the  corner  grocery  store,  where  he  could  sit  with  his  feet 
on  the  stove  swapping  stories  with  his  friends ;  and  if  an  English 
traveller  of  1850  had  happened  in  on  the  group,  he  would  most 
assuredly  have  discovered  another  instance  of  the  distressing 
vulgarity  to  which  the  absence  of  an  hereditary  aristocracy  and 
an  established  church  condemned  the  American  democracy. 
Thus  no  man  could  apparently  have  been  more  the  average 
product  of  his  day  and  generation.  Nevertheless,  at  bottom 
Abraham  Lincoln  differed  as  essentially  from  the  ordinary 
Western  American  of  the  Middle  Period  as  St.  Francis  of  Assisi 
differed  from  the  ordinary  Benedictine  monk  of  the  thirteenth 
century. 

The  average  Western  American  of  Lincoln's  generation  was 
fundamentally  a  man  who  subordinated  his  intelligence  to  cer- 
tain dominant  practical  interests  and  purposes.  He  was  far 
from  being  a  stupid  or  slow-witted  man.  On  the  contrary, 
his  wits  had  been  sharpened  by  the  traffic  of  American  politics 
and  business,  and  his  mind  was  shrewd,  flexible,  and  alert. 
But  he  was  wholly  incapable  either  of  disinterested  or  of  con- 
centrated intellectual  exertion.  His  energies  were  bent  in  the 
conquest  of  certain  stubborn  external  forces,  and  he  used  his 
intelligence  almost  exclusively  to  this  end.  The  struggles,  the 
hardships,  and  the  necessary  self-denial  of  pioneer  life  con- 
stituted an  admirable  training  of  the  will.  It  developed  a  body 
of  men  with  great  resolution  of  purpose  and  with  great  ingenuity 
and  fertility  in  adapting  their  insufficient  means  to  the  real- 
ization of  their  important  business  affairs.  But  their  almost 
exclusive  preoccupation  with  practical  tasks  and  their  failure 
to  grant  their  intelligence  any  room  for  independent  exercise 
bent  them  into  exceedingly  warped  and  one-sided  human  beings. 

Lincoln,  on  the  contrary,  much  as  he  was  a  man  of  his  own 
time  and  people,  was  precisely  an  example  of  high  and  disin- 
terested intellectual  culture.  During  all  the  formative  years  in 
which  his  life  did  not  superficially  differ  from  that  of  his  associates, 
he  was  in  point  of  fact  using  every  chance  which  the  material 


ii6  DrscL'ssroNS  of  facts  and  ideas 

of  Western  life  atTordeil  tci  discipline  and  inform  his  mind. 
These  materials  were  not  very  abundant ;  and  in  the  use  which 
he  proceeded  tt)  make  of  ihem  Lincoln  had  no  assistance,  either 
from  a  sound  tradition  or  from  a  better  educated  master.  On 
the  contrary,  as  the  history  of  the  times  shows,  there  was  every 
temptation  for  a  man  with  a  strong  intellectual  bent  to  be 
betrayed  into  mere  extravagance  and  aberration.  But  with 
the  sound  instinct  of  a  well-balanced  intelligence  Lincoln  seized 
upon  the  three  available  books,  the  earnest  study  of  which  might 
best  help  to  develop  harmoniously  a  strong  and  many-sided 
intelligence.  He  seized,  that  is,  upon  the  Bible,  Shakespeare, 
and  Euclid.  To  his  contemporaries  the  Bible  was  for  the  most 
part  a  fountain  of  fanatic  revivalism,  and  Shakespeare,  if  any- 
thing, a  mine  of  quotations.  But  in  the  case  of  Lincoln,  Shake- 
speare and  the  Bible  served,  not  merely  to  awaken  his  taste  and 
fashion  his  style,  but  also  to  liberate  his  literary  and  moral 
imagination.  At  the  same  time  he  was  training  his  powers  of 
thought  by  an  assiduous  study  of  algebra  and  geometry.  The 
absorbing  hours  he  spent  over  his  Euclid  were  apparently  of 
no  use  to  him  in  his  profession ;  but  Lincoln  was  in  his  way  an 
intellectual  gymnast  and  enjoyed  the  e.\ertion  for  its  own  sake. 
Such  a  use  of  his  leisure  must  have  seemed  a  sheer  waste  of  time 
to  his  more  practical  friends,  and  they  might  well  have  accounted 
for  his  comparative  lack  of  success  by  his  indulgence  in  such 
secret  and  useless  pastimes.  Neither  would  this  criticism  have 
been  beside  the  mark,  for  if  Lincoln's  great  energy  and  powers 
of  work  had  been  devoted  exclusively  to  practical  ends,  he  might 
well  have  become  in  the  early  days  a  more  prominent  lawyer 
and  politician  than  he  actually  was.  But  he  preferred  the  satis- 
faction of  his  own  intellectual  and  social  instincts,  and  so  qualified 
himself  for  achievements  beyond  the  power  of  a  Douglas. 

In  addition,  however,  to  these  private  gymnastics  Lincoln 
shared  with  his  neighbors  a  public  and  popular  source  of  intel- 
lectual and  human  insight.  The  Western  pioneers,  for  all  their 
exclusive  devotion  to  practical  purposes,  wasted  a  good  deal  of 
time  on  apparently  useless  social  intercourse.  In  the  Middle 
Western  towns  of  that  day  there  was,  as  we  have  seen,  an  ex- 


LINCOLN  AS  MORE   THAN  AN  AMERICAN  117 

traordinary  amount  of  good-fellowship,  which  was  quite  the  most 
wholesome  and  humanizing  thing  which  entered  into  the  lives 
of  these  hard-working  and  hard-featured  men.  The  whole  male 
countryside  was  in  its  way  a  club ;  and  when  the  presence  of 
women  did  not  make  them  awkward  and  sentimental,  the  men 
let  themselves  loose  in  an  amount  of  rough  pleasantry  and  free 
conversation,  which  added  the  one  genial  and  liberating  touch  to 
their  lives.  This  club  life  of  his  own  people  Lincoln  enjoyed 
and  shared  much  more  than  did  his  average  neighbor.  He 
passed  the  greater  part  of  what  he  would  have  called  his  leisure 
time  in  swapping  with  his  friends  stories,  in  which  the  genial 
and  humorous  side  of  Western  life  was  embodied.  Doubtless 
his  domestic  unhappiness  had  much  to  do  with  his  vagrancy ;  but 
his  native  instinct  for  the  wholesome  and  illuminating  aspect  of 
the  life  around  him  brought  him  more  frequently  than  any  other 
cause  to  the  club  of  loafers  in  the  general  store.  And  whatever 
the  promiscuous  conversation  and  the  racy  yarns  meant  to  his 
associates,  they  meant  vastly  more  to  Lincoln.  His  hours  of 
social  vagrancy  really  completed  the  process  of  his  intellectual 
training.  It  relieved  his  culture  from  the  taint  of  bookishness. 
It  gave  substance  to  his  humor.  It  humanized  his  wisdom  and 
enabled  him  to  express  it  in  a  familiar  and  dramatic  form.  It 
placed  at  his  disposal,  that  is,  the  great  classic  vehicle  of  popular 
expression,  which  is  the  parable  and  the  spoken  word. 

Of  course,  it  was  just  because  he  shared  so  completely  the 
amusements  and  the  occupations  of  his  neighbors  that  his  private 
personal  culture  had  no  embarrassing  effects.  Neither  he  nor 
his  neighbors  were  in  the  least  aware  that  he  had  been  placed 
thereby  in  a  different  intellectual  class.  No  doubt  the  loneliness 
and  sadness  of  his  personal  life  may  be  partly  explained  by  a 
dumb  sense  of  difference  from  his  fellows  ;  and  no  doubt  this  very 
loneliness  and  sadness  intensified  the  mental  preoccupation 
which  was  both  the  sign  and  the  result  of  his  personal  culture. 
But  his  unconsciousness  of  his  own  distinction,  as  well  as  his 
regular  participation  in  political  and  professional  practice, 
kept  his  will  as  firm  and  vigorous  as  if  he  were  really  no  more 
than  a  man  of  action.     His  natural  steadiness  of  purpose  had 


ikS  discussio\:>  of  facts  a.mj  idfias 

bfc'ii  loughcnccl  in  tin-  hcginnini;  by  the  hardships  aiul  struggles 
which  he  shared  with  his  neighbors;  and  his  self-imposed  in- 
tellectual discipline  in  no  way  impaired  the  stability  of  his 
character,  because  his  personal  culture  never  alienated  him 
from  his  neighbors  and  threw  him  into  a  consciously  critical 
frame  of  mind.  The  time  which  he  spent  in  intellectual  diver- 
sion may  have  diminished  to  some  extent  his  practical  efficiency 
previous  to  the  gathering  crisis.  It  certainly  made  him  less 
inclined  to  the  aggressive  self-assertion  which  a  successful 
political  career  demanded.  But  when  the  crisis  came,  when  the 
minds  of  Northern  patriots  were  stirred  by  the  ugly  alternative 
offered  to  them  by  the  South,  and  when  Lincoln  was  by  the  course 
of  events  restored  to  active  participation  in  politics,  he  soon 
showed  that  he  had  reached  the  highest  of  all  objects  of  personal 
culture.  While  still  remaining  one  of  a  body  of  men  who,  all 
unconsciously,  impoverished  their  minds  in  order  to  increase 
the  momentum  of  their  practical  energy,  he  none  the  less 
achieved  for  himself  a  mutually  helpful  relation  between  a  firm 
will  and  a  luminous  intelligence.  The  training  of  his  mind,  the 
awakening  of  his  imagination,  the  formation  of  his  taste  and  style, 
the  humorous  dramatizing  of  his  experience,  —  all  this  discipline 
had  failed  to  pervert  his  character,  narrow  his  sympathies,  or 
undermine  his  purposes.  His  intelligence  served  to  enlighten 
his  will,  and  his  will,  to  establish  the  mature  decisions  of  his 
intelligence.  Late  in  life  the  two  faculties  became  in  their 
exercise  almost  indistinguishable.  His  judgments,  in  so  far 
as  they  were  decisive,  were  charged  with  momentum,  and  his 
actions  were  instinct  with  sympathy  and  understanding. 

Just  because  his  actions  were  instinct  with  sympathy  and 
understanding,  Lincoln  was  certainly  the  most  humane  states- 
man who  ever  guided  a  nation  through  a  great  crisis.  He  al- 
ways regarded  other  men  and  acted  towards  them,  not  merely 
as  the  embodiment  of  an  erroneous  or  harmful  idea,  but  as  human 
beings,  capable  of  better  things ;  and  consequently  all  of  his 
thoughts  and  actions  looked  in  the  direction  of  a  higher  level 
of  human  association.  It  is  this  characteristic  which  makes 
him  a  better  and,  be  it  hoi)ed,  a  more  prophetic  democrat  than 


LINCOLN  AS  MORE   THAN  AN  AMERICAN  iig 

any  other  national  American  leader.  His  peculiar  distinction 
does  not  consist  in  the  fact  that  he  was  a  "Man  of  the  People" 
who  passed  from  the  condition  of  splitting  rails  to  the  condition 
of  being  President.  No  doubt  he  was  in  this  respect  as  good  a 
democrat  as  you  please,  and  no  doubt  it  was  desirable  that  he 
should  be  this  kind  of  a  democrat.  But  many  other  Americans 
could  be  named  who  were  also  men  of  the  people,  and  who  passed 
from  the  most  insignificant  to  the  most  honored  positions  in 
American  life.  Lincoln's  peculiar  and  permanent  distinction 
as  a  democrat  will  depend  rather  upon  the  fact  that  his  thoughts 
and  his  actions  looked  towards  the  realization  of  the  highest 
and  most  edifying  democratic  ideal.  Whatever  his  theories 
were,  he  showed  by  his  general  outlook  and  behavior  that  de- 
mocracy meant  to  him  more  than  anything  else  the  spirit  and 
principle  of  brotherhood.  He  was  the  foremost  to  deny  liberty 
to  the  South,  and  he  had  his  sensible  doubts  about  the  equality 
between  the  negro  and  the  white  man ;  but  he  actually  treated 
everybody  —  the  Southern  rebel,  the  negro  slave,  the  Northern 
deserter,  the  personal  enemy  —  in  a  just  and  kindly  spirit. 
Neither  was  this  kindliness  merely  an  instance  of  ordinary 
American  amiability  and  good  nature.  It  was  the  result,  not 
of  superficial  feeling  which  could  be  easily  ruffled,  but  of  his 
personal,  moral,  and  intellectual  discipline.  He  had  made  for 
himself  a  second  nature,  compact  of  insight  and  loving-kindness. 
It  must  be  remembered,  also,  that  this  higher  humanity 
resided  in  a  man  who  was  the  human  instrument  partly  re- 
sponsible for  an  awful  amount  of  slaughter  and  human  anguish. 
He  was  not  only  the  commander-in-chief  of  a  great  army  which 
fought  a  long  and  bloody  war,  but  he  was  the  statesman  who 
had  insisted  that,  if  necessary,  the  war  should  be  fought.  His 
mental  attitude  was  dictated  by  a  mixture  of  practical  common 
sense  with  genuine  human  insight,  and  it  is  just  this  mixture 
which  makes  him  so  rare  a  man  and,  be  it  hoped,  so  prophetic 
a  democrat.  He  could  at  one  and  the  same  moment  order  his 
countrymen  to  be  killed  for  seeking  to  destroy  the  American 
nation  and  forgive  them  for  their  error.  His  kindliness  and  his 
brotherly  feeling  did  not  lead  him,  after  the  manner  of  Jefferson, 


120  Discussioxs  or  iwcrs  and  ideas 

to  shirk  the  necessity  and  duty  of  national  defence.  Neither 
did  it  lead  him,  after  the  manner  of  William  Lloyd  Garrison,  to 
advocate  non-resistance,  wliile  at  the  same  time  arousinj^  in  his 
fellow-countrymen  a  spirit  of  fratricidal  warfare.  In  the  midst 
of  that  hideous  civil  contest  which  was  pro\^oked,  perhaj^s  un- 
necessarily, by  hatred,  irresponsibility,  jiassion,  and  disloyalty, 
and  which  has  been  the  fruitful  cause  of  national  disloyalty  down 
to  the  present  day,  Lincoln  did  not  for  a  moment  cherish  a 
bitter  or  unjust  feeling  against  the  national  enemies.  The 
Southerners,  filled  as  they  were  with  a  passionate  democratic 
devotion  to  their  own  interests  and  liberties,  abused  Lincoln 
until  they  really  came  to  believe  that  he  was  a  military  tyrant, 
yet  he  never  failed  to  treat  them  in  a  fair  and  forgiving  si)irit. 
When  he  w'as  assassinated,  it  was  the  South,  as  well  as  the 
American  nation,  which  had  lost  its  best  friend,  because  he 
alone  among  the  Republican  leaders  had  the  wisdom  to  see  that 
the  divided  House  could  only  be  restored  by  justice  and  kind- 
ness; and  if  there  are  any  defects  in  its  restoration  to-day,  they 
are  chiefly  due  to  the  baleful  spirit  of  injustice  and  hatred 
which  the  Republicans  took  over  from  the  Abolitionists. 

His  superiority  to  his  political  associates  in  constructive  states- 
manship is  measured  by  his  superiority  in  personal  character. 
There  are  many  men  who  are  able  to  forgive  the  enemies  of  their 
country-,  but  there  are  few  who  can  forgive  their  personal  enemies. 
I  need  not  rehearse  the  well-known  instances  of  Lincoln's  mag- 
nanimity. He  not  only  cherished  no  resentment  against  men  who 
had  intentionally  #nd  even  maliciously  injured  him,  but  he  seems 
at  times  to  have  gone  out  of  his  way  to  do  them  a  service.  This 
is,  perhaps,  his  greatest  distinction.  Lincoln's  magnanimity  is 
the  final  proof  of  the  completeness  of  his  self-discipline.  The 
quality  of  being  magnanimous  is  both  the  consummate  virtue 
and  the  one  which  is  least  natural.  It  was  certainly  far  from 
being  natural  among  Lincoln's  own  people.  Americans  of  his 
time  were  generally  of  the  opinion  that  it  was  dishonorable  to 
overlook  a  personal  injury.  They  considered  it  weak  and  un- 
manly not  to  quarrel  with  another  man  a  little  harder  than  he 
quarrelled  with  you.    The  pioneer  was  good-natured  and  kindly ; 


LINCOLN  AS  MORE   THAN  AN  AMERICAN  12 1 

but  he  was  aggressive,  quick-tempered,  unreasonable,  and  utterly 
devoid  of  personal  discipline.  A  slight  or  an  insult  to  his  per- 
sonality became  in  his  eyes  a  moral  wrong  which  must  be 
cherished  and  avenged,  and  which  relieved  him  of  any  obligation 
to  be  just  or  kind  to  his  enemy.  Many  conspicuous  illustrations 
of  this  quarrelsome  spirit  are  to  be  found  in  the  political  life 
of  the  middle  period,  which,  indeed,  cannot  be  understood  with- 
out constantly  falling  back  upon  the  influence  of  lively  personal 
resentments.  Every  prominent  politician  cordially  disliked 
or  hated  a  certain  number  of  his  political  adversaries  and  as- 
sociates ;  and  his  public  actions  were  often  dictated  by  a  purpose 
either  to  injure  these  men  or  to  get  ahead  of  them.  After  the 
retirement  of  Jackson  these  enmities  and  resentments  came  to 
have  a  smaller  influence ;  but  a  man's  right  and  duty  to  quarrel 
with  anybody  who,  in  his  opinion,  had  done  him  an  injury  was 
unchallenged,  and  was  generally  considered  to  be  the  necessary 
accompaniment  of  American  democratic  virility. 

As  I  have  intimated  above,  Andrew  Jackson  was  the  most 
conspicuous  example  of  this  quarrelsome  spirit,  and  for  this 
reason  he  is  wholly  inferior  to  Lincoln  as  a  type  of  democratic 
manhood.  Jackson  had  many  admirable  qualities  and  on  the 
whole  he  served  his  country  well.  He  also  was  a  "Man  of  the 
People"  who  understood  and  represented  the  mass  of  his  fellow- 
countrymen,  and  who  played  the  part,  according  to  his  lights, 
of  a  courageous  and  independent  political  leader.  He  also 
loved  and  defended  the  Union.  But  with  all  his  excellence  he 
should  never  be  held  up  as  a  model  to  American  youth.  The 
world  was  divided  into  his  personal  friends  and  followers  and 
his  personal  enemies,  and  he  was  as  eager  to  do  the  latter  an 
injury  as  he  was  to  do  the  former  a  service.  His  quarrels  were 
not  petty,  because  Jackson  was,  on  the  whole,  a  big  rather 
than  a  little  man,  but  they  were  fierce  and  they  were  for  the  most 
part  irreconcilable.  They  bulk  so  large  in  his  life  that  they  can- 
not be  overlooked.  They  stamp  him  a  type  of  the  vindictive 
man  without  personal  discipline,  just  as  Lincoln's  behavior 
towards  Stanton,  Chase,  and  others  stamps  him  a  type  of  the 
man   who  has    achieved    magnanimity.     He    is    the    kind   of 


122  DISCUSSIONS  OF  FACTS  AND  IDEAS 

national  hero  tho  admirinc;  imitation  of  whom  can  do  nolliinji 
but  gt^xl. 

Lincohi  had  abandoned  the  illusion  of  his  own  peculiar  |)er- 
sonal  importance.  He  had  become  profoundly  and  sincerely 
humble,  and  his  humility  was  as  far  as  possible  from  beinp; 
either  a  conventional  pose  or  a  matter  of  nervous  self-distrust. 
It  did  not  impair  the  firmness  of  his  will.  It  did  not  betray 
him  into  shirkin<T  responsibilities.  Althouj:^h  only  a  country 
la\Nyer  without  executive  e.x])erience,  he  did  not  flinch  from 
assuming  the  leadership  of  a  great  nation  in  one  of  the  gravest 
crises  of  its  national  history,  from  becoming  commander-in-chief 
of  an  army  of  a  million  men,  and  from  spending  83,000,000,000 
in  the  prosecution  of  a  war.  His  humility,  that  is,  was  precisely 
an  example  of  moral  vitality  and  insight  rather  than  of  moral 
awkwardness  and  enfeeblement.  It  was  the  fruit  of  reflection 
on  his  own  personal  experience  —  the  supreme  instance  of  his 
ability  to  attain  moral  truth  both  in  discipline  and  in  idea ;  and 
in  its  aspect  of  a  moral  truth  it  obtained  a  more  ex-plicit  expres- 
sion than  did  some  other  of  his  finer  personal  attributes.  His 
practice  of  cherishing  and  repeating  the  plaintive  little  verses 
which  inquire  monotonously  whether  the  spirit  of  mortal  has  any 
right  to  be  proud  indicates  the  depth  and  the  highly  conscious 
character  of  this  fundamental  moral  conviction.  He  is  not  only 
humble  himself,  but  he  feels  and  declares  that  men  have  no 
right  to  be  anything  but  humble;  and  he  thereby  enters  into 
possession  of  the  most  fruitful  and  the  most  universal  of  all 
religious  ideas. 

Lincoln's  humility,  no  less  than  his  liberal  intelligence  and 
his  magnanimous  disposition,  is  more  democratic  than  it  is 
American ;  but  in  this,  as  in  so  many  other  cases,  his  personal 
moral  fhgnity  and  his  peculiar  moral  insight  did  not  separate 
him  from  his  associates.  Like  them,  he  wanted  professional 
success,  public  office,  and  the  ordinary  rewards  of  American 
Hfe;  and  like  them,  he  bears  no  trace  of  political  or  moral 
purism.  But  unlike  them,  he  was  not  the  intellectual  and  moral 
\'ictim  of  his  own  puq:)oses  and  ambitions ;  and  unlike  them,  his 
life  is  a  tribute  to  the  sincerity  and  depth  of  his  moral  insight. 


LINCOLN  AS  MORE   THAN  AN  AMERICAN  123 

He  could  never  have  become  a  national  leader  by  the  ordinary 
road  of  insistent  and  clamorous  self-assertion.  Had  he  not  been 
restored  to  public  life  by  the  crisis,  he  would  have  remained  in 
all  probability  a  comparatively  obscure  and  a  wholly  under- 
valued man.  But  the  political  ferment  of  1856  and  the  threat 
of  ruin  overhanging  the  American  Union  pushed  him  again  on 
to  the  political  highway ;  and  once  there,  his  years  of  intellectual 
discipline  enabled  him  to  play  a  leading  and  a  decisive  part. 
His  personality  obtained  momentiun,  direction,  and  increasing 
dignity  from  its  identification  with  great  issues  and  events.  He 
became  the  individual  instrument  whereby  an  essential  and 
salutary  national  purpose  was  fulfilled ;  and  the  instrument  was 
admirably  effective,  precisely  because  it  had  been  silently  and 
unconsciously  tempered  and  formed  for  high  achievement. 
Issue  as  he  was  of  a  society  in  which  the  cheap  tool,  whether 
mechanical  or  personal,  was  the  immediately  successful  tool, 
he  had  none  the  less  labored  long  in  the  making  of  a  consummate 
individual  instrument. 

Some  of  my  readers  may  protest  that  I  have  over-emphasized 
the  difference  between  Lincoln  and  his  contemporary  fellow- 
countrymen.  In  order  to  exalt  the  leader  have  I  not  too  much 
disparaged  the  followers  ?  Well,  a  comparison  of  this  kind  al- 
ways involves  the  risk  of  unfairness ;  but  if  there  is  much  truth 
in  the  foregoing  estimate  of  Lincoln,  the  lessons  of  the  com- 
parison are  worth  its  inevitable  risks.  The  ordinary  interpre- 
tation of  Lincoln  as  a  consummate  democrat  and  a  "man  of 
the  people"  has  implied  that  he  was,  like  Jackson,  simply  a 
bigger  and  a  better  version  of  the  plain  American  citizen ;  and 
it  is  just  this  interpretation  which  I  have  sought  to  deny  and 
to  expose.  In  many  respects  he  was,  of  course,  very  much  like 
his  neighbors  and  associates.  He  accepted  everything  whole- 
some and  useful  in  their  life  and  behavior.  He  shared  their 
good-fellowship,  their  strength  of  will,  their  excellent  faith,  and 
above  all  their  innocence ;  and  he  could  never  have  served  his 
country  so  well,  or  reached  as  high  a  level  of  personal  dignity, 
in  case  he  had  not  been  good-natured  and  strong  and  innocent. 
But,  as  all  commentators  have  noted,  he  was  not  only  good- 


1J4  DISCUSSIONS  OF  FACTS   AXD  IDEAS 

naturetl,  strong,  and  innocent ;  he  had  made  himself  intellectually 
candid,  concentrateil,  and  disinterested,  and  morally  humane, 
majjnanimous,  and  humble.  All  these  (jualities,  which  were  the 
very  flower  of  his  personal  life,  were  not  possessed  either  by 
the  averai^e  or  the  exceptional  American  of  his  day ;  and  not  only 
were  they  not  possessed,  but  they  were  either  wholly  ignored 
or  consciously  undervalued.  Yet  these  very  ciualities  of  high 
intelligence,  humanity,  magnanimity,  and  humility  arc  precisely 
the  qualities  which  Americans,  in  order  to  become  better  dem- 
ocrats, should  add  to  their  strength,  their  homogeneity,  and 
their  innocence ;  w^hile  at  the  same  time  they  are  just  the  qualities 
which  Americans  are  prevented  by  their  indi\'idualistic  practice 
and  tradition  from  attaining  or  properly  valuing.  Their  deepest 
convHlctions  make  the  average  unintelligent  man  the  repre- 
sentative democrat,  and  the  aggressive  successful  individual 
the  admirable  national  type ;  and  in  conformity  with  these  con- 
victions their  uppermost  ideas  in  respect  to  Lincoln  are  that  he 
was  a  ''Man  of  the  People"  and  an  example  of  strong  will. 
He  was  both  of  these  things,  but  his  great  distinction  is  that  he 
was  also  something  vastly  more  and  better.  He  cannot  be 
fully  understood  and  properly  valued  as  a  national  hero  with- 
out an  implicit  criticism  of  these  traditional  convictions.  Such 
a  criticism  he  himself  did  not  and  could  not  make.  In  case  he 
had  made  it,  he  could  never  have  achieved  his  great  political  task 
and  his  great  personal  triumph.  But  other  times  bring  other 
needs.  It  is  as  desirable  to-day  that  the  criticism  should  be  made 
explicit  as  it  was  that  Lincoln  himself  in  his  day  should  preserv^e 
the  innocence  and  integrity  of  a  unique  unconscious  example. 


ENGLISH  AND   AMERICAN  SPORTSMANSHIP  ^ 

John  Corbin 

The  prevalence  of  out-of-door  sports  in  England,  and  the 
amenity  of  the  English  sporting  spirit,  may  be  laid,  I  think, 

'  From  An  American  at  Oxford.     Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company,  1Q02.     Re- 
printefi  by  permission. 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SPORTSMANSHIP  125 

primarily,  to  the  influence  of  climate.  Through  the  long,  tem- 
perate summer,  all  nature  conspires  to  entice  a  man  out-of-doors, 
while  in  America  sunstroke  is  imminent.  All  day  long  the 
village  greens  in  England  are  thronged  with  boys  playing  cricket 
in  many-colored  blazers,  while  every  stream  is  dotted  with  boats 
of  all  sorts  and  descriptions;  and  in  the  evenings,  long  after 
the  quick  American  twilight  has  shut  down  on  the  heated  earth, 
the  English  horizon  gives  light  for  the  recreations  of  those  who 
have  labored  all  day.  In  the  winter  the  result  is  the  same, 
though  the  cause  is  very  different.  Stupefying  exhalations  rise 
from  the  damp  earth,  and  the  livelong  twilight  that  does  for 
day  forces  a  man  back  for  good  cheer  upon  mere  animal  spirits. 
In  the  English  summer  no  normal  man  could  resist  the  beckoning 
of  the  fields  and  the  river.  In  the  winter  it  is  sweat,  man,  or 
die.  .  .  . 

In  a  sportsman  it  would  be  most  ungracious  to  inveigh  against 
English  weather.  The  very  qualities  one  instinctively  curses 
make  possible  the  full  and  varied  development  of  outdoor  games, 
which  Americans  admire  without  stint.  Our  football  teams 
do  day  labor  to  get  fit,  and  then,  after  a  game  or  so,  the  sport 
is  nipped  in  the  bud.  To  teach  our  oarsmen  the  rudiments  of 
the  stroke  we  resort  to  months  of  the  galley-slavery  of  tank- 
rowing.  Our  track  athletes  begin  their  season  in  the  dead  of 
winter  with  the  dreary  monotony  of  wooden  dumb-bells  and 
pulley-weights,  while  the  baseball  men  are  learning  to  slide 
for  bases  in  the  cage.  In  England  the  gymnasium  is  happily 
unknown.  Winter  and  summer  alike  the  sportsman  lives  be- 
neath the  skies,  and  the  sports  are  so  diverse  and  so  widely 
cultivated  that  any  man,  whatever  his  mental  or  physical  ca- 
pacity, finds  suitable  exercise  that  is  also  recreation. 

It  is  because  of  this  universaUty  of  athletic  sports  that  English 
training  is  briefer  and  less  severe.  The  American  makes,  and 
is  forced  to  make,  a  long  and  tedious  business  of  getting  fit, 
whereas  an  Englishman  has  merely  to  exercise  and  sleep  a  trifle 
more  than  usual,  and  this  only  for  a  brief  period.  Our  oarsmen 
work  daily  from  January  to  July,  about  six  months,  or  did  so 
before  Mr.  Lehmann  brought  English  ideas  among  us ;    the 


126  Disci'ssioxs  or  facts  axp  idkas 

Eiifjlish  'varsity  crows  row  tof^ethcr  nine  or  ten  weeks.  Our 
football  {^layers  slog  daily  for  six  or  seven  weeks ;  English  teams 
seldom  or  never  "practice,"  and  play  at  most  two  matches  a 
week.  Our  track  athletes  are  in  training  at  frequent  intervals 
throughout  the  college  year,  and  are  often  at  the  training-table 
six  weeks ;  in  England  six  weeks  is  the  maximum  period  of 
training,  and  the  men  as  a  rule  are  given  only  three  days  a  week 
of  exercise  on  the  cinder-track.  To  an  American  training  is  an 
abnormal  condition ;  to  an  Englishman  it  is  the  consummation 
of  the  normal. 

The  moderation  of  English  training  is  powerfully  abetted  by 
a  peculiarity  of  the  climate.  The  very  dulness  and  depression 
that  make  exercise  imperative  also  make  it  impossible  to  sus- 
tain much  of  it.  The  clear,  bright  American  sky  —  the  sky  that 
renders  it  difficult  for  us  to  take  the  same  delight  in  Italy  as  an 
Englishman  takes,  and  leads  us  to  prefer  Ruskin's  descriptions 
to  the  reality  —  cheers  the  American  athlete ;  and  the  crispness 
of  the  atmosphere  and  its  extreme  variability  keeps  his  nerves 
alert.  An  English  athlete  would  go  hopelessly  stale  on  work 
that  would  scarcely  key  an  American  up  to  his  highest  pitch. 

The  effect  of  these  differences  on  the  temperament  of  the 
athlete  is  marked.  The  crispness  and  variety  of  our  climate 
foster  nervous  vitality  at  the  expense  of  physical  vitality,  while 
the  equability  of  the  English  climate  has  the  opposite  effect. 
In  all  contests  that  require  sustained  effort  —  distance  running 
and  cross-country  running,  for  example  —  we  are  in  general  far 
behind ;  while  during  the  comparatively  few  years  in  which  we 
have  practiced  athletic  sports  we  have  shown,  on  the  whole, 
vastly  superior  form  in  all  contests  depending  upon  nervous 
energy  —  sprinting,   hurdling,   jumping,   and  weight-throwing. 

Because  of  these  differences  of  climate  and  of  temperament, 
no  rigid  comparison  can  be  made  betw'een  English  and  American 
training;  but  it  is  probably  true  that  English  athletes  tend  to 
train  too  little.  Mr.  Horan,  the  president  of  the  Cambridge 
team  that  ran  against  Yale  at  New  Haven,  said  as  much  after 
a  very  careful  study  of  American  methods ;  but  he  was  not 
convinced  that  our  thoroughness  is  quite  worth  while.     The  law 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SPORTSMANSHIP  127 

of  diminishing  returns,  he  said,  applies  to  training  as  to  other 
things,  so  that,  after  a  certain  point,  very  little  is  gained  even 
for  a  great  sacrifice  of  convenience  and  pleasantness.  Our 
American  athletes  are  twice  as  rigid  in  denying  the  spirit  for 
an  advantage,  Mr.  Horan  admitted,  of  enough  to  win  by. 

The  remark  is  worth  recording ;  it  strikes  the  note  of  differ- 
ence between  English  and  American  sportsmanship.  After 
making  all  allowances  for  the  conditions  here  and  abroad  that 
are  merely  accidental,  one  vital  difference  remains.  For  better 
or  for  worse,  a  sport  is  a  sport  to  an  Englishman,  and  whatever 
tends  to  make  it  anything  else  is  not  encouraged ;  as  far  as  pos- 
sible it  is  made  pleasant,  socially  and  physically.  Contests  are 
arranged  without  what  American  undergraduates  call  diplomacy ; 
and  they  come  oft"  without  jockeying.  It  is  very  seldom  that  an 
Englishman  forgets  that  he  is  a  man  first  and  an  athlete  after- 
wards. Yet  admirable  as  this  quality  is,  it  has  its  defects,  at 
least  to  the  transatlantic  mind.  Even  more,  perhaps,  than 
others.  Englishmen  relish  the  joy  of  eating  their  hearts  at  the 
end  of  a  contest,  but  they  have  no  taste  for  the  careful  prepara- 
tion that  alone  enables  a  man  to  fight  out  a  finish  to  the  best 
advantage.  It  is  no  doubt  true,  as  the  Duke  of  Wellington  said, 
that  the  battle  of  Waterloo  was  won  on  the  playing-fields  of 
England ;  but  for  any  inconsiderable  sum  I  would  agree  to 
furnish  a  similar  saying  as  to  why  the  generals  in  South  Africa 
ran  into  ambush  after  ambush. 

In  America  sportsmanship  is  almost  a  religion.  Fellows  mor- 
tify the  flesh  for  months  and  leave  no  means  untried  that  may 
help  to  bring  honor  to  their  college;  or,  if  they  don't,  public 
opinion  brings  swift  and  sure  retribution.  It  is  true  that  this 
leads  to  excesses.  Rivalries  are  so  strong  that  undergraduates 
have  been  known  to  be  more  than  politic  in  arranging  matches 
with  each  other.  So  the  graduate  steps  in  to  moderate  the  ardor 
of  emulation,  and  often  ends  by  keeping  alive  ancient  animosi- 
ties long  after  they  would  have  been  forgotten  in  the  vanishing 
generations  of  undergraduates.  The  Harvard  eleven  wants  to 
play  the  usual  football  game ;  but  it  is  not  allowed  to,  because 
a  committee  of  graduates  sees  fit  to  snub  Yale;    the  athletic 


128  DISCUSSIONS  or  FACTS  AND  IDEAS 

tt'iim  wants  to  accept  a  challenge  from  Oxford  and  Cambridge, 
but  it  is  not  allowed  to  because  Pennsylvania,  which  is  not 
challenged,  has  a  better  team,  and  it  is  the  policy  of  the  uni- 
versity (which  has  an  eye  to  its  graduate  schools)  to  ingratiate 
sister  institutions.  In  a  word,  the  undergraduates  are  left  to 
manage  their  studies,  while  the  faculty  manages  their  pastimes. 

When  a  contest  is  fmally  on,  excesses  are  rampant.  Of  oc- 
casional brutalities  too  much  has  perhaps  been  said ;  but  more 
serious  errors  are  unreproved.  There  is  a  tradition  that  it  is  the 
duty  of  all  non-athletes  to  inspire  the  'varsity  teams  by  cheering 
the  play  from  the  side  lines ;  and  from  time  to  time  one  reads 
leading  articles  in  the  college  papers  exhorting  men  to  back  the 
teams.  The  spectator  is  thus  given  an  important  part  in  every 
contest,  and  after  a  'varsity  match  he  is  praised  or  blamed, 
together  with  the  members  of  the  team,  according  to  his  deserts. 
Yale  may  outplay  Harvard,  but  if  Harvard  sufficiently  out- 
cheers  Yale  she  wins,  and  to  the  rooters  belongs  the  praise.  In 
baseball  games  especially,  a  season's  championship  is  not  in- 
frecjuently  decided  by  the  fact  that  the  partisans  of  one  side  are 
more  numerous,  or  for  other  reasons  make  more  noise.  These 
are  serious  excesses,  and  are  worthy  of  the  pen  of  the  robustest 
reformer ;  but  after  all  has  been  said,  they  are  incidents,  and 
in  the  slow  course  of  time  are  probably  disappearing. 

The  signal  fact  is  that  our  young  men  do  what  they  do  with 
the  diligence  of  enthusiasm,  and  with  the  devotion  that  inspires 
the  highest  courage.  It  is  not  unknown  that,  in  the  bitterness 
of  failure,  American  athletes  have  burst  into  tears.  When  our 
English  cousins  hear  of  this  they  are  apt  to  smile,  and  doubtless 
the  practice  is  not  altogether  to  be  commended ;  but  in  the 
length  and  breadth  of  a  man's  experience  there  are  only  two  or 
three  things  one  would  wish  so  humbly  as  the  devotion  that 
makes  it  possible.  Such  earnestness  is  the  quintessence  of 
Americanism,  and  is  probably  to  be  traced  to  the  signal  fact 
that  in  the  struggle  of  life  we  all  start  with  a  fighting  chance  of 
coming  out  on  top.  Whatever  the  game,  so  long  as  it  is  treated 
as  a  game,  nothing  could  be  as  wholesome  as  the  spirit  that 
tends  to  make  our  young  men  play  it  for  all  it  is  worth,  to  do 


ENGLISH  AND  AMERICAN  SPORTSMANSHIP  129 

everything  that  can  be  done  to  secure  victory  with  personal 
honor.  In  later  years,  when  these  men  stand  for  the  honor  of 
the  larger  alma  mater,  on  the  field  of  battle  or  in  the  routine  of 
administration,  it  is  not  likely  that  they  will  altogether  forget 
the  virtues  of  their  youth. 

The  superiority  of  English  sportsmanship  arises,  not  from  the 
spirit  of  the  men,  but  from  the  breadth  of  the  development  of 
the  sports,  and  this,  climate  aside,  is  the  result  of  the  division 
of  the  university  into  colleges.  The  average  college  of  only  a 
hundred  and  fifty  men  maintains  two  football  teams  —  a  Rugby 
fifteen  and  an  Association  eleven  —  an  eight  and  two  torpids, 
a  cricket  eleven,  and  a  hockey  eleven.  Each  college  has  also  a 
set  of  athletic  games  yearly.  If  we  add  the  men  who  play  golf, 
lawn  and  court  tennis,  rackets  and  fives,  who  swim,  box,  wrestle, 
and  who  shoot  on  the  ranges  of  the  gun  club,  the  total  of  men 
schooled  in  competition  reaches  eighty  to  one  hundred.  A  simple 
calculation  will  show  that  when  so  many  are  exercising  daily, 
few  are  left  for  spectators.  Not  a  bench  is  prepared,  nor  even 
a  plank  laid  on  the  spongy  English  turf,  to  stand  between  the 
hanger-on  and  pneumonia.  A  man's  place  is  in  the  field  of 
strife;  to  take  part  in  athletic  contests  is  almost  as  much  a 
matter  of  course  as  to  bathe.  Of  late  years  there  has  been  a 
tendency  in  England  to  believe  that  the  vigor  of  undergraduates 
—  and  of  all  Englishmen,  for  the  matter  of  that  —  is  in  deca- 
dence. As  regards  their  cultivation  of  sports  at  least,  the  reverse 
is  true.  Contests  are  more  numerous  now  than  ever,  and  are 
probably  more  earnestly  waged.  What  is  called  English  de- 
cadence is  in  reality  the  increasing  superiority  of  England's 
rivals. 

Quite  aside  from  the  physical  and  moral  benefit  to  the  men 
engaged,  this  multiplication  of  contests  has  a  striking  effect  in 
lessening  the  importance  of  winning  or  losing  any  particular  one 
of  them.  It  is  more  powerful  than  any  other  factor  in  keeping 
English  sports  free  from  the  excesses  that  have  so  often  char- 
acterized our  sports.  From  time  to  time  a  voice  is  raised  in 
America  as  of  a  prophet  of  despair  demanding  the  abolition  of 
inter-university  contests.     As  yet  the  contests  have  not  been 


I^O  DISCL'SSIONS    OF   FACTS   AM)  IDEA5 

abolishetl.  and  do  in»t  si-t'in  likely  to  be.  Might  it  not  he  argued 
without  impertinence  that  the  best  means  of  doing  away  with 
the  excesses  in  question  is  not  to  have  fewer  contests,  but  more 
of  them  ?  If  our  universities  were  divided  into  residential 
units,  corresponding  roughly  to  the  English  colleges,  the  excesses 
in  particular  contests  could  scarcely  fail  to  be  mitigated ;  and 
what  is  perhaps  of  still  higher  importance,  the  great  body  of 
non-athletes  would  be  brought  directly  under  the  influence  of 
all  those  strong  and  fine  traditions  of  undergraduate  life  which 
centre  in  the  spirit  of  sportsmanship. 


SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  ENGLISH' 
George  Herbert  Paoier 

Self-cultivation  in  the  use  of  English  must  chiefly  come 
through  speech ;  because  we  are  always  speaking,  whatever 
else  we  do.  In  opportunities  for  acquiring  a  mastery  of  lan- 
guage, the  poorest  and  busiest  are  at  no  large  disadvantage 
as  compared  with  the  leisured  rich.  It  is  true  the  strong  im- 
pulse which  comes  from  the  suggestion  and  approval  of  society 
may  in  some  cases  be  absent,  but  this  can  be  compensated  by  the 
sturdy  purpose  of  the  learner.  A  recognition  of  the  beauty  of 
well-ordered  words,  a  strong  desire,  patience  under  discourage- 
ments, and  promptness  in  counting  every  occasion  as  of  conse- 
quence, —  these  are  the  simple  agencies  which  sweep  one  on  to 
power.  Watch  your  speech,  then.  That  is  all  which  is  needed. 
Only  it  is  desirable  to  know  what  qualities  of  speech  to  watch 
for.  I  find  three  —  accuracy,  audacity,  and  range  —  and  I 
will  say  a  few  words  about  each. 

Obviously,  good  English  is  exact  English.  Our  words  should 
fit  our  thoughts  like  a  glove,  and  be  neither  too  wide  nor  too 
tight.  If  too  wide,  they  will  include  much  vacuity  beside  the 
intended  matter.  If  too  tight,  they  will  check  the  strong  grasp. 
Of  the  two  dangers,  looseness  is  by  far  the  greater.     There  are 

'  Published  by  Thomas  Y.  Crowell  &  Company,  1897.    Reprinted  by  permission. 


SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  ENGLISH 


^31 


people  who  say  what  they  mean  with  such  a  naked  precision 
that  nobody  not  famiHar  with  the  subject  can  quickly  catch  the 
sense.  George  Herbert  and  Emerson  strain  the  attention  of 
many.  But  niggardly  and  angular  speakers  are  rare.  Too 
frequently  words  signify  nothing  in  particular.  They  are 
merely  thrown  out  in  a  certain  direction,  to  report  a  vague  and 
undetermined  meaning  or  even  a  general  emotion.  The  first 
business  of  every  one  who  would  train  himself  in  language  is 
to  articulate  his  thought,  to  know  definitely  what  he  wishes  to 
say,  and  then  to  pick  those  words  which  compel  the  hearer  to 
think  of  this  and  only  this.  For  such  a  purpose  two  words  are 
often  better  than  three.  The  fewer  the  words,  the  more  pun- 
gent the  impression.  Brevity  is  the  soul  not  simply  of  a  jest, 
but  of  wit  in  its  finest  sense  where  it  is  identical  with  wisdom. 
He  who  can  put  a  great  deal  into  a  little  is  the  master.  Since 
firm  texture  is  what  is  wanted,  not  embroidery  or  superposed 
ornament,  beauty  has  been  well  defined  as  the  purgation  of 
superfluities.  And  certainly  many  a  paragraph  might  have  its 
beauty  brightened  by  letting  quiet  words  take  the  place  of  its 
loud  words,  omitting  its  ''verys,"  and  striking  out  its  purple 
patches  of  "fine  writing."  Here  is  Ben  Jonson's  description  of 
Bacon's  language:  "There  happened  in  my  time  one  noble 
speaker  who  was  full  of  gravity  in  his  speech.  No  man  ever 
spoke  more  neatly,  more  pressly,  more  weightily,  or  suffered  less 
emptiness,  less  idleness,  in  what  he  uttered.  No  member  of 
his  speech  but  consisted  of  his  own  graces.  His  hearers  could 
not  cough  or  look  aside  without  loss.  He  commanded  when  he 
spoke,  and  had  his  judges  angry  or  pleased  at  his  discretion." 
Such  are  the  men  who  command,  men  who  speak  "neatly  and 
pressly."  But  to  gain  such  precision  is  toilsome  business. 
While  we  are  in  training  for  it,  no  word  must  unpermittedly 
pass  the  portal  of  the  teeth.  Something  like  what  we  mean 
must  never  be  counted  equivalent  to  what  we  mean.  And  if 
we  are  not  sure  of  our  meaning  or  of  our  word,  we  must  pause 
until  we  are  sure.  Accuracy  does  not  come  of  itself.  For  per- 
sons who  can  use  several  languages,  capital  practice  in  acquiring 
it  can  be  had  by  translating  from  one  language  to  another  and 


132  DISCUSSIONS  OF  FACTS  AND  IDEAS 

seeinii,  that  the  eiitirr  sense  is  carried  over.  Those  who  have 
only  their  native  speech  will  find  it  profitable  often  to  attempt 
definitions  of  the  common  words  they  use.  Inaccuracy  will  not 
stand  uj)  apjainst  the  habit  of  definition.  Dante  boasted  that 
no  rhythmic  exijrency  had  ever  made  him  say  what  he  did  not 
mean.  We  heedless  and  unintending  speakers,  under  no  exi- 
gency of  rhjTiie  or  reason,  say  what  we  mean  but  seldom  and 
still  more  seldom  mean  what  w-e  say.  To  hold  our  thoughts  and 
words  in  significant  adjustment  requires  unceasing  conscious- 
ness, a  perpetual  determination  not  to  tell  lies ;  for  of  course 
every  inaccuracy  is  a  bit  of  untruthfulness.  We  have  some- 
thing in  mind,  yet  convey  something  else  to  our  hearer.  And 
no  moral  purpose  will  save  us  from  this  untruthfulness  unless 
that  purpose  is  sufficient  to  inspire  the  daily  drill  which  brings 
the  power  to  be  true.  Again  and  again  we  are  shut  up  to  evil 
because  we  have  not  acquired  the  ability  of  goodness. 

But  after  all,  I  hope  that  nobody  who  hears  me  wdll  quite  agree. 
There  is  something  enervating  in  conscious  care.  Necessary  as 
it  is  in  shaping  our  purposes,  if  allowed  too  direct  and  exclusive 
control  consciousness  breeds  hesitation  and  feebleness.  Action 
is  not  excellent,  at  least,  until  spontaneous.  In  piano  playing 
we  begin  by  picking  out  each  separate  note ;  but  we  do  not  call 
the  result  music  until  we  play  our  notes  by  the  handful,  heedless 
how  each  is  formed.  And  so  it  is  everywhere.  Consciously 
selective  conduct  is  elementary  and  inferior.  People  distrust 
it,  or  rather  they  distrust  him  who  exhibits  it.  If  anybody 
talking  to  us  visibly  studies  his  words,  we  turn  away.  What  he 
says  may  be  well  enough  as  school  exercise,  but  it  is  not  con- 
versation. Accordingly,  if  we  would  have  our  speech  forcible, 
we  shall  need  to  put  into  it  quite  as  much  of  audacity  as  we  do 
of  precision,  terseness,  or  simplicity.  Accuracy  alone  is  not  a 
thing  to  be  sought,  but  accuracy  and  dash.  Of  Patrick  Henry, 
the  orator  who  more  than  any  other  could  craze  our  P  evolu- 
tionary fathers,  it  was  said  that  he  was  accustomed  to  throw 
himself  headlong  into  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  trusting  to  God 
Almighty  to  get  him  out.  So  must  we  speak.  We  must  not, 
before  beginning  a  sentence,  decide  what  the  end  shall  be ;  for  if 


SELF-CULTIVATION  IN   ENGLISH  1 33 

we  do,  nobody  will  care  to  hear  that  end.  At  the  beginning,  it 
is  the  beginning  which  claims  the  attention  of  both  speaker  and 
listener,  and  trepidation  about  going  on  will  mar  all.  We  must 
give  our  thought  its  head,  and  not  drive  it  with  too  tight  a  rein, 
nor  grow  timid  when  it  begins  to  prance  a  bit.  Of  course  we 
must  retain  coolness  in  courage,  applying  the  results  of  our 
previous  discipline  in  accuracy ;  but  we  need  not  move  so  slowly 
as  to  become  formal.  Pedantry  is  worse  than  blundering.  If 
we  care  for  grace  and  flexible  beauty  of  language,  we  must  learn 
to  let  our  thought  run.  Would  it,  then,  be  too  much  of  an  Irish 
bull  to  say  that  in  acquiring  English  we  need  to  cultivate  spon- 
taneity ?  The  uncultivated  kind  is  not  worth  much ;  it  is  wild 
and  haphazard  stuff,  unadjusted  to  its  uses.  On  the  other  hand, 
no  speech  is  of  much  account,  however  just,  which  lacks  the 
element  of  courage.  Accuracy  and  dash,  then,  the  combination 
of  the  two,  must  be  our  difficult  aim ;  and  we  must  not  rest 
satisfied  so  long  as  either  dwells  with  us  alone. 

But  are  the  two  so  hostile  as  they  at  first  appear  ?  Or  can, 
indeed,  the  first  be  obtained  without  the  aid  of  the  second? 
Supposing  we  are  convinced  that  words  possess  no  value  in 
themselves,  and  are  correct  or  incorrect  only  as  they  truly  re- 
port experience,  we  shall  feel  ourselves  impelled  in  the  mere 
interest  of  accuracy  to  choose  them  freshly,  and  to  put  them 
together  in  ways  in  which  they  never  cooperated  before,  so  as 
to  set  forth  with  distinctness  that  which  just  we,  not  other 
people,  have  seen  or  felt.  The  reason  why  we  do  not  naturally 
have  this  daring  exactitude  is  probably  twofold.  We  let  our 
experiences  be  blurred,  not  observing  sharply,  nor  knowing  with 
any  minuteness  what  we  are  thinking  about ;  and  so  there  is  no 
individuality  in  our  language.  And  then,  besides,  we  are  ter- 
rorized by  custom,  and  inclined  to  adjust  what  we  would  say 
to  what  others  have  said  before.  The  cure  for  the  first  of  these 
troubles  is  to  keep  our  eye  on  our  object,  instead  of  on  our  lis- 
tener or  ourselves ;  and  for  the  second,  to  learn  to  rate  the  ex- 
pressiveness of  language  more  highly  than  its  correctness.  The 
opposite  of  this,  the  disposition  to  set  correctness  above  expres- 
siveness,  produces   that   peculiarly   vulgar   diction   known   as 


134  Discrssroxs  of  facts  a.\d  ideas 

'*  school-ma  "a  111  ICiiglish,"  in  which  for  tlic  sake  of  a  dull  accord 
with  usage  all  the  picturesque,  inia<^inative,  and  forceful  eiii- 
l)loynient  of  words  is  sacrificed.  Of  course  we  must  use  words 
so  Uiut  people  can  understand  them,  and  understand  them,  too, 
with  ease ;  but  this  once  granted,  let  our  language  be  our  own, 
obedient  to  our  special  needs.  "Whenever,"  says  Thomas 
Jefferson,  "by  small  grammatical  negligences  the  energy  of  an 
idea  can  be  condensed,  or  a  word  be  made  to  stand  for  a  sen- 
tence, I  hold  grammatical  rigor  in  contempt."  "Young  man," 
said  Henry  Ward  Beecher  to  one  who  was  pointing  out  gram- 
matical errors  in  a  sermon  of  his,  "when  the  English  language 
gets  in  my  way,  it  doesn't  stand  a  chance."  Xo  man  can  be 
convincing,  writer  or  speaker,  who  is  afraid  to  send  his  words 
wherever  they  may  best  follow  his  meaning,  and  this  with  but 
little  regard  to  whether  any  other  person's  words  have  ever  been 
there  before.  In  assessing  merit,  let  us  not  stupefy  ourselves 
with  using  negative  standards.  What  stamps  a  man  as  great 
is  not  freedom  from  faults,  but  abundance  of  powers. 

Such  audacious  accuracy,  however,  distinguishing  as  it  does 
noble  speech  from  commonplace  speech,  can  be  practiced  only 
by  him  who  has  a  wide  range  of  words.  Our  ordinary  range  is 
absurdly  narrow'.  It  is  important,  therefore,  for  anybody 'who 
would  cultivate  himself  in  English  to  make  strenuous  and  sys- 
tematic efforts  to  enlarge  his  vocabulary.  Our  dictionaries 
contain  more  than  a  hundred  thousand  words.  The  average 
speaker  employs  about  three  thousand.  Is  this  because  or- 
dinary people  have  only  three  or  four  thousand  things  to  say  ? 
Not  at  all.  It  is  simply  due  to  dulness.  Listen  to  the  average 
schoolboy.  He  has  a  dozen  or  two  nouns,  half  a  dozen  verbs, 
three  or  four  adjectives,  and  enough  conjunctions  and  preposi- 
tions to  stick  the  conglomerate  together.  This  ordinary  speech 
deserves  the  description  which  Hobbes  gave  to  his  State  of  N attire, 
that  "it  is  solitary,  poor,  nasty,  brutish,  and  short."  The  fact 
is,  we  fall  into  the  way  of  thinking  that  the  wealthy  words  are 
for  others  and  that  they  do  not  belong  to  us.  We  are  like  those 
who  have  received  a  vast  inheritance,  but  who  persist  in  the 
inconvenience  of  hard  beds,  scanty  food,  rude  clothing;    who 


SELF-CULTIVATION  IN  ENGLISH  1 35 

never  travel,  and  who  limit  their  purchases  to  the  bleak  neces- 
sities of  life.  Ask  such  people  why  they  endure  niggardly  living 
while  wealth  in  plenty  is  lying  in  the  bank,  and  they  can  only 
answer  that  they  have  never  learned  how  to  spend.  But  this  is 
worth  learning.  Milton  used  eight  thousand  words,  Shake- 
speare fifteen  thousand.  We  have  all  the  subjects  to  talk  about 
that  these  early  speakers  had ;  and  in  addition,  we  have  bicycles 
and  sciences  and  strikes  and  political  combinations  and  all  the 
complicated  living  of  the  modern  world. 

Why,  then,  do  we  hestitate  to  swell  our  words  to  meet  our 
needs  ?  It  is  a  nonsense  question.  There  is  no  reason.  We  are 
simply  lazy ;  too  lazy  to  make  ourselves  comfortable.  We  let 
our  vocabularies  be  limited,  and  get  along  rawly  without  the 
refinements  of  human  intercourse,  without  refinements  in  our 
own  thoughts ;  for  thoughts  are  almost  as  dependent  on  words 
as  words  on  thoughts.  For  example,  all  exasperations  we  lump 
together  as  "aggravating,"  not  considering  whether  they  may 
not  rather  be  displeasing,  annoying,  offensive,  disgusting,  irri- 
tating, or  even  maddening ;  and  without  observing,  too,  that 
in  our  reckless  usage  we  have  burned  up  a  word  which  might  be 
convenient  when  we  should  need  to  mark  some  shading  of  the 
word  "increase."  Like  the  bad  cook,  we  seize  the  frying-pan 
whenever  we  need  to  fry,  broil,  roast,  or  stew,  and  then  we 
wonder  why  all  our  dishes  taste  alike  while  in  the  next  house 
the  food  is  appetizing.  It  is  all  unnecessary.  Enlarge  the 
vocabulary.  Let  any  one  who  wants  to  see  himself  grow,  re- 
solve to  adopt  two  new  words  each  week.  It  will  not  be  long 
before  the  endless  and  enchanting  variety  of  the  world  will 
begin  to  reflect  itself  in  his  speech,  and  in  his  mind  as  well.  I 
know  that  when  we  use  a  word  for  the  first  time  we  are  startled, 
as  if  a  firecracker  went  off  in  our  neighborhood.  We  look  about 
hastily  to  see  if  any  one  has  noticed.  But  finding  that  no  one 
has,  we  may  be  emboldened.  A  word  used  three  times  slips 
off  the  tongue  with  entire  naturalness.  Then  it  is  ours  forever, 
and  with  it  some  phase  of  life  which  had  been  lacking  hitherto. 
For  each  word  presents  its  own  point  of  view,  discloses  a  special 
aspect  of  things,  reports  some  little  importance  not  otherwise 


136  DISCUSSIONS  Of  FACTS  AND  IDEAS 

conveyed,  and  so  contriluitcs  its  small  emancipation  to  our 
ticd-up  minds  and  tongues. 

But  a  brief  waminK  may  he  necessary  to  make  my  meaning; 
clear.  In  urging  the  addition  of  new  words  to  our  present  pov- 
erty-stricken stock,  I  am  far  from  suggesting  that  we  should 
seek  out  strange,  technical,  or  inflated  expressions,  which  do  not 
appear  in  ordinary  conversation.  The  very  opposite  is  my  aim. 
I  would  put  every  man  who  is  now  employing  a  diction  merely 
local  and  personal  in  command  of  the  approved  resources  of  the 
English  language.  Our  poverty  usually  comes  through  pro- 
\anciality,  through  accepting  without  criticism  the  habits  of 
our  special  set.  My  family,  my  immediate  friends,  have  a 
diction  of  their  own.  Plenty  of  other  words,  recognized  as 
sound,  are  known  to  be  current  in  books,  and  to  be  employed  by 
modest  and  intelligent  speakers,  only  we  do  not  use  them.  Our 
set  has  never  said  "diction,"  or  "current,"  or  "scope,"  or 
"scanty,"  or  "hitherto,"  or  "convey,"  or  "lack."  Far  from 
unusual  as  these  words  are,  to  adopt  them  might  seem  to  set 
me  apart  from  those  whose  intellectual  habits  I  share.  From 
this  I  shrink.  I  do  not  like  to  wear  clothes  suitable  enough  for 
others,  but  not  in  the  style  of  my  own  plain  circle.  Yet  if  each 
one  of  that  circle  does  the  same,  the  general  shabbiness  is  in- 
creased. The  talk  of  all  is  made  narrow  enough  to  fit  the  thin- 
nest there.  \Vhat  w^e  should  seek  is  to  contribute  to  each  of  the 
little  companies  with  which  our  life  is  bound  up  a  gently  en- 
larging influence,  such  impulses  as  will  not  startle  or  create  de- 
tachment, but  which  may  save  from  humdrum,  routine,  and 
dreary  usualness.  We  cannot  be  really  kind  without  being  a 
little  venturesome.  The  small  shocks  of  our  increasing  vo- 
cabulary will  in  all  probability  be  as  helpful  to  our  friends  as 
to  ourselves. 

Such,  then,  are  the  excellences  of  speech.  If  we  would  culti- 
vate ourselves  in  the  use  of  English,  we  must  make  our  daily 
talk  accurate,  daring,  and  full.  I  have  insisted  on  these  points 
the  more  because  in  my  judgment  all  literary  power,  especially 
that  of  busy  men,  is  rooted  in  sound  speech. 


1 


THE  SOCIAL    VALUE  OF   THE  COLLEGE-BRED  137 

THE   SOCIAL  VALUE  OF  THE   COLLEGE-BRED  1 

William  James 

Or  what  use  is  a  college  training  ?  We  who  have  had  it 
seldom  hear  the  question  raised  —  we  might  be  a  little  non- 
plussed to  answer  it  offhand.  A  certain  amount  of  meditation 
has  brought  me  to  this  as  the  pithiest  reply  which  I  myself  can 
give  :  The  best  claim  that  a  college  education  can  possibly  make 
on  your  respect,  the  best  thing  it  can  aspire  to  accomplish  for 
you,  is  this  :  that  it  should  help  you  to  know  a  good  man  when  you 
see  him.  This  is  as  true  of  women's  as  of  men's  colleges ;  but 
that  it  is  neither  a  joke  nor  a  one-sided  abstraction  I  shall  now 
endeavor  to  show. 

What  talk  do  we  commonly  hear  about  the  contrast  between 
college  education  and  the  education  which  business  or  technical 
or  professional  schools  confer  ?  The  college  education  is  called 
higher  because  it  is  supposed  to  be  so  general  and  so  disinterested. 
At  the  "  schools  "  you  get  a  relatively  narrow  practical  skill, 
you  are  told,  whereas  the  ''  colleges  "  give  you  the  more  liberal 
culture,  the  broader  outlook,  the  historical  perspective,  the 
philosophic  atmosphere,  or,  something  which  phrases  of  that 
sort  try  to  express.  You  are  made  into  an  efficient  instrument 
for  doing  a  definite  thing,  you  hear,  at  the  schools ;  but,  apart 
from  that,  you  may  remain  a  crude  and  smoky  kind  of  petro- 
leum, incapable  of  spreading  light.  The  universities  and 
colleges,  on  the  other  hand,  although  they  may  leave  you  less 
efficient  for  this  or  that  practical  task,  suffuse  your  whole  men- 
tality with  something  more  important  than  skill.  They  redeem 
you,  make  you  well-bred ;  they  make  "  good  company  "  of  you 
mentally.  If  they  find  you  with  a  naturally  boorish  or  caddish 
mind,  they  cannot  leave  you  so,  as  a  technical  school  may  leave 
you.  This,  at  least,  is  pretended ;  this  is  what  we  hear  among 
college-trained  people  when  they  compare  their  education  with 
every  other  sort.     Now,  exactly  how  much  does  this  signify  ? 

1  Published  in  McClure's  Magazine,  vol.  XXX,  p.  419.    Reprinted  by  permission. 


138  DISCUSSfOXS  OF   FACT^   AXD   IDEAS 

It  is  certain,  to  hc^in  with,  that  the  naiidwest  trade  or  pro- 
fessional training;  ih)es  something  more  for  a  man  than  to  make  a 
skilful  practical  tool  of  him  —  it  makes  him  also  a  judge  of 
other  men's  skill.  Whether  his  trade  be  pleading  at  the  bar  or 
surgery  or  plastering  or  plumbing,  it  develops  a  critical  sense  in 
him  for  that  sort  of  occupation.  He  understands  the  difference 
between  second-rate  and  first-rate  work  in  his  whole  branch  of 
industry ;  he  gets  to  know  a  good  job  in  his  own  line  as  soon  as 
he  sees  it ;  and  getting  to  know  this  in  his  own  line,  he  gets  a 
faint  sense  of  what  good  work  may  mean  anyhow,  that  may,  if 
circumstances  favor,  spread  into  his  judgments  elsewhere. 
Sound  work,  clean  work,  finished  work  :  feeble  work,  slack  work, 
sham  work  —  these  words  express  an  identical  contrast  in  many 
different  departments  of  actix-ity.  In  so  far  forth,  then,  even 
the  humblest  manual  trade  may  beget  in  one  a  certain  small 
degree  of  power  to  judge  of  good  work  generally. 

Now,  what  is  supposed  to  be  the  line  of  us  who  have  the 
higher  college  training  ?  Is  there  any  broader  line  —  since 
our  education  claims  primarily  not  to  be  "narrow"  —  in  which 
we  also  are  made  good  judges  between  what  is  first-rate  and 
what  is  second-rate  only?  What  is  especially  taught  in  the 
colleges  has  long  been  known  by  the  name  of  the  "  humanities," 
and  these  are  often  identified  -sAith  Greek  and  Latin.  But  it  is 
only  as  literatures,  not  as  languages,  that  Greek  and  Latin  have 
any  general  humanit>'-value ;  so  that  in  a  broad  sense  the  hu- 
manities mean  literature  primarily,  and  in  a  still  broader  sense, 
the  study  of  masterpieces  in  almost  any  field  of  human  endeavor. 
Literature  keeps  the  primacy ;  for  it  not  onh'  consists  of  master- 
pieces, but  is  largely  about  masterpieces,  being  little  more  than 
an  appreciative  chronicle  of  human  master-strokes,  so  far  as  it 
takes  the  form  of  criticism  and  history.  You  can  give  human- 
istic value  to  almost  anything  by  teaching  it  historically.  Geol- 
ogy, economics,  mechanics,  are  humanities  when  taught  with 
reference  to  the  successive  achievements  of  the  geniuses  to  which 
these  sciences  owe  their  being.  Not  taught  thus,  literature 
remains  grammar,  art  a  catalogue,  history  a  list  of  dates,  and 
natural  science  a  sheet  of  formulas  and  weights  and  measures. 


THE  SOCIAL    VALUE  OF   THE  COLLEGE-BRED         139 

The  sifting  of  human  creations  !  —  nothing  less  than  this  is 
what  we  ought  to  mean  by  the  humanities.  Essentially  this 
means  biography ;  what  our  colleges  should  teach  is,  therefore, 
biographical  history,  that  not  of  politics  merely,  but  of  any- 
tliing  and  everything  so  far  as  human  efforts  and  conquests  are 
factors  that  have  played  their  part.  Studying  in  this  way,  we 
learn  what  types  of  activity  have  stood  the  test  of  time;  we 
acquire  standards  of  the  excellent  and  durable.  All  our  arts 
and  sciences  and  institutions  are  but  so  many  quests  of  perfec- 
tion on  the  part  of  men;  and  when  we  see  how  diverse  the 
types  of  excellence  may  be,  how  various  the  tests,  how  flexible 
the  adaptations,  we  gain  a  richer  sense  of  what  the  terms 
"better"  and  "worse"  may  signify  in  general.  Our  critical 
sensibihties  grow  both  more  acute  and  less  fanatical.  We 
sympathize  with  men's  mistakes  even  in  the  act  of  penetrating 
them ;  we  feel  the  pathos  of  lost  causes  and  misguided  epochs 
even  while  we  applaud  what  overcame  them. 

Such  words  are  vague  and  such  ideas  are  inadequate,  but  their 
meaning  is  unmistakable.  What  the  colleges  —  teaching  hu- 
manities by  examples  which  may  be  special,  but  which  must  be 
typical  and  pregnant  —  should  at  least  try  to  give  us,  is  a  general 
sense  of  what,  under  various  disguises,  superiority  has  always 
signified  and  may  still  signify.  The  feeling  for  a  good  human 
job  anywhere,  the  admiration  of  the  really  admirable,  the  dis- 
esteem  of  what  is  cheap  and  trashy  and  impermanent  —  this 
is  what  we  call  the  critical  sense,  the  sense  for  ideal  values.  It 
is  the  better  part  of  what  men  know  as  wisdom.  Some  of  us 
are  wise  in  this  way  naturally  and  by  genius ;  some  of  us  never 
become  so.  But  to  have  spent  one's  youth  at  college,  in  contact 
with  the  choice  and  rare  and  precious,  and  yet  still  to  be  a  blind 
prig  or  vulgarian,  unable  to  scent  out  human  excellence  or  to 
divine  it  amid  its  accidents,  to  know  it  only  when  ticketed  and 
labelled  and  forced  on  us  by  others,  this  indeed  should  be  ac- 
counted the  very  calamity  and  shipwreck  of  a  higher  education. 

The  sense  for  human  superiority  ought,  then,  to  be  considered 
our  line,  as  boring  subways  is  the  engineer's  line  and  the  sur- 
geon's is  appendicitis.     Our  colleges  ought  to  have  lit  up  in  us  a 


14©  DlSCL'SSrOXS  OF   FACTS   AXD   IDF.AS 

lasting  relish  for  the  lictter  kind  of  man,  a  hiss  of  appetite  for 
metliocrities,  and  a  disgust  for  chcapjacks.  We  ought  to  smell, 
as  it  were,  the  ditlcrence  of  quality  in  men  and  their  projwsals 
when  we  enter  the  world  of  alTairs  about  us.  Expertness  in  this 
might  well  atone  for  some  of  our  awkwardness  at  accounts,  for 
some  of  our  ignorance  of  dynamos.  The  best  claim  we  can 
make  for  the  higher  education,  the  best  single  phrase  in  which 
we  can  tell  what  it  ought  to  do  for  us,  is,  then,  exactly  what  I 
said:   it  should  enable  us  to  know  a  ^ood  man  when  ive  sec  Jiim. 

That  the  phrase  is  anything  but  an  empty  epigram  follows 
from  the  fact  that  if  you  ask  in  what  line  it  is  most  important 
that  a  democracy  like  ours  should  have  its  sons  and  daughters 
skilful,  you  see  that  it  is  this  line  more  than  any  other.  "The 
people  in  their  ^^^sdom"  —  this  is  the  kind  of  \\isdom  most 
needed  by  the  people.  Democracy  is  on  its  trial,  and  no  one 
knows  how  it  \\i\\  stand  the  ordeal.  Abounding  about  us  are 
pessimistic  prophets.  Fickleness  and  N-iolence  used  to  be,  but 
are  no  longer,  the  \ices  which  they  charge  to  democracy.  What 
its  critics  now  affirm  is  that  its  preferences  are  inveterately  for 
the  inferior.  So  it  was  in  the  beginning,  they  say,  and  so  it  will 
be  world  -without  end.  Vulgarity  enthroned  and  institution- 
alized, elbo\N'ing  everything  superior  from  the  highway,  this, 
they  tell  us,  is  our  irremediable  destiny ;  and  the  picture-papers 
of  the  European  continent  are  already  dra\\'ing  Uncle  Sam  with 
the  hog  instead  of  the  eagle  for  his  heraldic  emblem.  The  priv- 
ileged aristocracies  of  the  foretime,  with  all  their  iniquities,  did 
at  least  preserve  some  taste  for  higher  human  quality  and  honor 
certain  forms  of  refinement  by  their  enduring  traditions.  But 
when  democracy  is  sovereign,  its  doubters  say,  nobility  \vi\\  form 
a  sort  of  invisible  church,  and  sincerity  and  refinement,  stripped 
of  honor,  precedence,  and  favor,  will  have  to  vegetate  on  suf- 
ferance in  private  comers.  They  will  have  no  general  influence. 
They  will  be  harmless  eccentricities. 

Now,  who  can  be  absolutely  certain  that  this  may  not  be  the 
career  of  democracy  ?  Nothing  future  is  quite  secure ;  states 
enough  have  inwardly  rotted ;  and  democracy  as  a  whole  may 
undergo  self-poisoning.     But,  on  the  other  hand,  democracy  is 


THE  SOCIAL   VALUE  OF   THE  COLLEGE-BRED         141 

a  kind  of  religion,  and  we  are  bound  not  to  admit  its  failure. 
Faiths  and  Utopias  are  the  noblest  exercise  of  human  reason,  and 
no  one  with  a  spark  of  reason  in  him  will  sit  down  fatalistically 
before  the  croaker's  picture.  The  best  of  us  are  filled  with  the 
contrary  vision  of  a  democracy  stumbling  through  every  error 
till  its  institutions  glow  with  justice  and  its  customs  shine  with 
beauty.  Our  better  men  shall  show  the  way  and  we  shall  follow 
them ;  so  we  are  brought  round  again  to  the  mission  of  the 
higher  education  in  helping  us  to  know  the  better  kind  of  man 
whenever  we  see  him. 

The  notion  that  a  people  can  run  itself  and  its  affairs  anony- 
mously is  now  well  known  to  be  the  silliest  of  absurdities. 
Mankind  does  nothing  save  through  initiatives  on  the  part  of 
inventors,  great  or  small,  and  imitation  by  the  rest  of  us  — 
these  are  the  sole  factors  active  in  human  progress.  Individuals 
of  genius  show  the  way,  and  set  the  patterns,  which  common 
people  then  adopt  and  follow.  The  rivalry  of  the  patterns  is  the 
history  of  the  world.  Our  democratic  problem  thus  is  statable 
in  ultra-simple  terms :  Who  are  the  kind  of  men  from  whom  our 
majorities  shall  take  their  cue?  Whom  shall  they  treat  as 
rightful  leaders  ?  We  and  our  leaders  are  the  x  and  the  y  of  the 
equation  here ;  all  other  historic  circumstances,  be  they  eco- 
nomical, political,  or  intellectual,  are  only  the  background  of 
occasion  on  which  the  living  drama  works  itself  out  between 
us. 

In  this  very  simple  way  does  the  value  of  our  educated  class 
define  itself :  we  more  than  others  should  be  able  to  divine  the 
worthier  and  better  leaders.  The  terms  here  are  monstrously 
simplified,  of  course,  but  such  a  bird's-eye  view  lets  us  im- 
mediately take  our  bearings.  In  our  democracy,  where  every- 
thing else  is  so  shifting,  we  alumni  and  alumnae  of  the  colleges 
are  the  only  permanent  presence  that  corresponds  to  the  aris- 
tocracy in  older  countries.  We  have  continuous  traditions, 
as  they  have ;  our  motto,  too,  is  noblesse  oblige :  and,  unlike  them, 
we  stand  for  ideal  interests  solely,  for  we  have  no  corporate 
selfishness  and  wield  no  powers  of  corruption.  We  ought  to 
have  our  own  class-consciousness.     "  Les  intellectuels  "  !     What 


142  DfSCi'SSrOXS  OF  FACTS   A.\D  IDf-.AS 

prouder  club-name  could  there  he  than  this  one,  used  ironically 
by  the  party  of  "red  l)lood,"  the  party  of  every  stu|)id  prejudice 
and  passion,  durinj^  the  anti-Dreyfus  cra/e,  to  satiri/.e  the  men 
in  France  who  still  retained  some  critical  sense  and  jud<;ment ! 
Critical  sense,  it  has  to  be  confessed,  is  not  an  exciting  term, 
hardly  a  banner  to  carry  in  processions.  Affections  for  okl 
habit,  currents  of  self-interest,  and  j^ales  of  passion  are  the 
forces  that  keep  the  human  ship  moving ;  and  the  pressure  of  the 
judicious  pilot's  hand  upon  the  tiller  is  a  relatively  insignificant 
energ>'.  But  the  affections,  passions,  and  interest  are  shifting, 
successive,  and  distraught ;  they  blow  in  alternation  while  the 
pilot's  hand  is  steadfast.  He  knows  the  compass,  and,  with 
all  the  leeways  he  is  obliged  to  tack  toward,  he  always  makes 
some  headway.  A  small  force,  if  it  never  lets  up,  will  accumu- 
late effects  more  considerable  than  those  of  much  greater  forces 
if  these  work  inconsistently.  The  ceaseless  whisper  of  the  more 
permanent  ideals,  the  steady  tug  of  truth  and  justice,  give  them 
but  time,  must  warp  the  world  in  their  direction. 

This  bird's-eye  view  of  the  general  steering  function  of  the 
college-bred  amid  the  driftings  of  democracy  ought  to  help  us  to 
a  wider  \'ision  of  what  our  colleges  themselves  should  aim  at. 
If  we  are  to  be  the  yeast-cake  for  democracy's  dough,  if  we  are 
to  make  it  rise  with  culture's  preferences,  we  must  see  to  it  that 
culture  spreads  broad  sails.  We  must  shake  the  old  double 
reefs  out  of  the  canvas  into  the  -wind  and  sunshine,  and  let  in 
ever>'  modern  subject,  sure  that  any  subject  will  prove  human- 
istic, if  its  setting  be  kept  only  \Nide  enough. 

Stevenson  says  somewhere  to  his  reader :  "You  think  you  are 
just  making  this  bargain,  but  you  are  really  la^-ing  down  a  link 
in  the  policy  of  mankind."  Well,  your  technical  school  should 
enable  you  to  make  your  bargain  splendidly ;  but  your  college 
should  show  you  just  the  place  of  that  kind  of  bargain  —  a 
pretty  poor  place,  possibly  —  in  the  whole  policy  of  mankind. 
That  is  the  kind  of  liberal  outlook,  of  perspective,  of  atmosphere, 
which  should  surround  every  subject  as  a  college  deals  with  it. 

We  of  the  colleges  must  eradicate  a  curious  notion  which 
numbers  of  good  people  have  about  such  ancient  seats  of  learning 


THE  SOCIAL   VALUE  OF   THE  COLLEGE-BRED 


[43 


as  Harvard.  To  many  ignorant  outsiders,  that  name  suggests 
little  more  than  a  kind  of  sterilized  conceit  and  incapacity  for 
being  pleased.  In  Edith  Wyatt's  exquisite  book  of  Chicago 
sketches  called  Every  One  His  Own  Way,  there  is  a  couple  who 
stand  for  culture  in  the  sense  of  exclusiveness,  Richard  Elliot 
and  his  feminine  counterpart  —  feeble  caricatures  of  mankind, 
unable  to  know  any  good  thing  when  they  see  it,  incapable  of 
enjoyment  unless  a  printed  label  gives  them  leave.  Possibly 
this  type  of  culture  may  exist  near  Cambridge  and  Boston,  there 
may  be  specimens  there,  for  priggishness  is  just  like  painter's 
colic  or  any  other  trade-disease.  But  every  good  college  makes 
its  students  immune  against  this  malady,  of  which  the  microbe 
haunts  the  neighborhood-printed  pages.  It  does  so  by  its  gen- 
eral tone  being  too  hearty  for  the  microbe's  life.  Real  culture 
lives  by  sympathies  and  admirations,  not  by  dislikes  and  dis- 
dains —  under  all  misleading  wrappings  it  pounces  unerringly 
upon  the  human  core.  If  a  college,  through  the  inferior  hu- 
man influences  that  have  grown  regnant  there,  fails  to  catch 
the  robuster  tone,  its  failure  is  colossal,  for  its  social  function 
stops ;  democracy  gives  it  a  wide  berth,  turns  toward  it  a  deaf 
ear. 

''Tone,"  to  be  sure,  is  a  terribly  vague  word  to  use,  but  there 
is  no  other,  and  this  whole  meditation  is  over  questions  of  tone. 
By  their  tone  are  all  things  human  either  lost  or  saved.  If 
democracy  is  to  be  saved  it  must  catch  the  higher,  healthier 
tone.  If  we  are  to  impress  it  with  our  preferences,  we  ourselves 
must  use  the  proper  tone,  which  we,  in  turn,  must  have  caught 
from  our  own  teachers.  It  all  reverts  in  the  end  to  the  action 
of  innumerable  imitative  individuals  upon  each  other  and  to 
the  question  of  whose  tone  has  the  highest  spreading  power.  As 
a  class,  we  college  graduates  should  look  to  it  that  ours  has 
spreading  power.  It  ought  to  have  the  highest  spreading 
power. 

In  our  essential  function  of  indicating  the  better  men,  we  now 
have  formidable  competitors  outside.  McClure's  Magazine, 
the  American  Magazine,  Collier^ s  Weekly  and,  in  its  fashion,  the 
World's  Work,  constitute  together  a  real  popular   uuivcrsit}' 


144  DISCUSSIOXS  OF  FACTS  AND  IDEAS 

along  this  very  liiu-.  It  would  be  a  pity  if  any  future  historian 
were  to  have  to  write  words  like  these:  "By  the  middle  of  the 
twentieth  century  the  higher  institutions  of  learning  had  lost 
all  influence  over  j)ul)lic  opinion  in  the  L'nited  States.  Hut  th<; 
mission  of  raising  the  tone  of  democracy,  which  they  had  proved 
themselves  so  lamentably  unfitted  to  exert,  was  assumed  with 
rare  enthusiasm  and  prosecuted  with  extraordinary  skill  and 
success  by  a  new  educational  power  ;  and  for  the  claritlcation  of 
their  human  sympathies  and  elc\ation  of  their  human  prefer- 
ences, the  people  at  large  acquired  the  habit  of  resorting  ex- 
clusively to  the  guidance  of  certain  private  literary  adventures, 
commonly  designated  in  the  market  by  the  aflfectionate  name  of 
ten-cent  magazines." 

Must  not  we  of  the  colleges  see  to  it  that  no  historian  shall 
ever  say  anything  like  this?  Vague  as  the  phrase  of  knowing 
a  good  man  w^hen  you  see  him  may  be,  diflfuse  and  indefinite  as 
one  must  leave  its  application,  is  there  any  other  formula  that 
describes  so  well  the  result  at  which  our  institutions  ouf^ht  to 
aim  ?  If  they  do  that,  they  do  the  best  thing  conceivable.  If 
they  fail  to  do  it,  they  fail  in  very  deed.  It  surely  is  a  fine 
synthetic  formula.  If  our  faculties  and  graduates  could  once 
collectively  come  to  realize  it  as  the  great  underlying  purpose 
toward  which  they  have  always  been  more  or  less  obscurely 
groping,  a  great  clearness  would  be  shed  over  many  of  their 
problems;  and,  as  for  their  influence  in  the  midst  of  our  social 
system,  it  would  embark  upon  a  new  career  of  strength. 


I.   D.   EXPOSITORY   BIOGRAPHY 

FRANCIS   PARKMANi 

Henry  Cabot  Lodge 

I  DESIRE  to  give,  if  possible,  the  impression,  for  it  can  be  no 
more  than  an  impression,  of  a  life  which  in  its  conflicts  and 
victories  manifested  throughout  heroic  qualities.  Such  quali- 
ties can  be  shown  in  many  ways,  and  the  field  of  battle  is  only 
one  of  the  fields  of  human  endeavor  where  heroism  can  be  dis- 
played. 

Francis  Parkman  was  born  in  Boston  on  September  i6,  1822. 
He  came  of  a  well-known  family,  and  was  of  good  Puritan  stock. 
He  was  rather  a  delicate  boy,  with  an  extremely  active  mind  and 
of  a  highly  sensitive,  nervous  organization.  Into  everything 
that  attracted  him  he  threw  himself  with  feverish  energy. 
His  first  passion,  when  he  was  only  about  twelve  years 
old,  was  for  chemistry,  and  his  eager  boyish  experiments 
in  this  direction  were  undoubtedly  injurious  to  his  health. 
The  interest  in  chemistry  was  succeeded  by  a  passion 
for  the  woods  and  the  wilderness,  and  out  of  this  came 
the  longing  to  write  the  history  of  the  men  of  the  wilder- 
ness, and  of  the  great  struggle  between  France  and  Eng- 
land for  the  control  of  the  North  American  continent.  All 
through  his  college  career  this  desire  was  with  him,  and  while 
in  secret  he  was  reading  widely  to  prepare  himself  for  his  task, 
he  also  spent  a  great  deal  of  time  in  the  forests  and  on  the  moun- 
tains. To  quote  his  own  words,  he  was  "fond  of  hardships, 
and  he  was  vain  of  enduring  them,  cherishing  a  sovereign  scorn 
for  every  physical  weakness  or  defect ;  but  deceived,  moreover, 

>  From  Hero  Tales  oj  American  History.  The  Century  Company,  1895.  Re- 
printed by  permission. 

L  145 


146  EXPOSITORY   BIOGRAPHY 

hv  the  rapid  development  of  frame  and  sinew,  \vlii(  li  llatlered 
him  into  the  belief  that  discipline  sufficiently  unsparing  \vt)uld 
harden  him  into  an  athlete,  he  slii^hted  the  precautions  of  a 
more  reasonable  woodcraft,  tired  old  foresters  with  lonj^  marches, 
stoj^ped  neither  for  heat  nor  for  rain,  and  slept  on  the  earth 
without  blankets."  The  result  was  that  his  intense  energy 
carried  him  beyond  his  strength,  and  while  his  muscles 
strengthened  and  hardened,  his  sensitive  nervous  organization 
began  to  give  way.  It  was  not  merely  because  he  led  an  active 
outdoor  life.  He  himself  protests  against  any  such  conclusion, 
and  says  that  "if  any  pale  student  glued  to  his  desk  here  seek 
an  apology  for  a  way  of  life  whose  natural  fruit  is  that  pallid 
and  emasculate  scholarship,  of  which  New  England  has  had  too 
many  examples,  it  will  be  far  better  that  this  sketch  had  not 
been  written.  For  the  student  there  is,  in  its  season,  no  better 
place  than  the  saddle,  and  no  better  companion  than  the  rifle 
or  the  oar." 

The  evil  that  was  done  was  due  to  Parkman's  highly  irritable 
organism,  which  spurred  him  to  excess  in  everything  he  under- 
took. The  first  special  sign  of  the  mischief  he  was  doing  to 
himself  and  his  health  appeared  in  a  weakness  of  sight.  It  was 
essential  to  his  plan  of  historical  work  to  study  not  only  books 
and  records  but  Indian  life  from  the  inside.  Therefore,  having 
graduated  from  college  and  the  law-school,  he  felt  that  the 
time  had  come  for  this  investigation,  which  would  enable  him 
to  gather  material  for  his  history  and  at  the  same  time  to  rest 
his  eyes.  He  went  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  after  great 
hardships,  living  in  the  saddle,  as  he  said,  with  weakness  and 
pain,  he  joined  a  band  of  Ogallalla  Indians.  With  them  he 
remained  despite  his  physical  sufTering,  and  from  them  he  learned , 
as  he  could  not  have  learned  in  any  other  way,  what  Indian  life 
really  was. 

The  immediate  result  of  the  journey  was  his  first  book,  in- 
stinct with  the  freshness  and  wildness  of  the  mountains  and  the 
prairies,  and  called  by  him  The  Oregon  Trail.  Unfortunately, 
the  book  was  not  the  only  outcome.  The  illness  incurred  during 
his  journey  from  fatigue  and  exposure  was  followed  by  other 


FRANCIS  PARKMAN  147 

disorders.  The  light  of  the  sun  became  unsupportable,  and  his 
nervous  system  was  entirely  deranged.  His  sight  was  now  so 
impaired  that  he  was  almost  blind,  and  could  neither  read  nor 
write.  It  was  a  terrible  prospect  for  a  brilliant  and  ambitious 
man,  but  Parkman  faced  it  unflinchingly.  He  devised  a  frame 
by  which  he  could  write  with  closed  eyes,  and  books  and  manu- 
scripts were  read  to  him.  In  this  way  he  began  the  history  of 
The  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac,  and  for  the  first  half-year  the  rate 
of  composition  covered  about  six  lines  a  day.  His  courage  was 
rewarded  by  an  improvement  in  his  health,  and  a  little  more 
quiet  in  nerves  and  brain.  In  two  and  a  half  years  he  managed 
to  complete  the  book. 

He  then  entered  upon  his  great  subject  of  "France  in  the 
New  World."  The  material  was  mostly  in  manuscript,  and 
had  to  be  examined,  gathered,  and  selected  in  Europe  and  in 
Canada.  He  could  not  read,  he  could  write  only  a  very  little 
and  that  with  difficulty,  and  yet  he  pressed  on.  He  slowly 
collected  his  material  and  digested  and  arranged  it,  using  the 
eyes  of  others  to  do  that  which  he  could  not  do  himself,  and 
always  on  the  verge  of  a  complete  breakdown  of  mind  and 
body.  In  1851  he  had  an  effusion  of  water  on  the  left  knee, 
which  stopped  his  outdoor  exercise,  on  which  he  had  always 
largely  depended.  All  the  irritability  of  the  system  then 
centred  in  the  head,  resulting  in  intense  pain  and  in  a  restless 
and  devouring  activity  of  thought.  He  himself  says:  "The 
whirl,  the  confusion,  and  strange  undefined  tortures  attending 
this  condition  are  only  to  be  conceived  by  one  who  has  felt 
them."  The  resources  of  surgery  and  medicine  were  exhausted 
in  vain.  The  trouble  in  the  head  and  eyes  constantly  recurred. 
In  1858  there  came  a  period  when  for  four  years  he  was  inca- 
pable of  the  slightest  mental  application,  and  the  attacks  varied 
in  duration  from  four  hours  to  as  many  months.  When  the 
pressure  was  lightened  a  little,  he  went  back  to  his  work.  When 
work  was  impossible,  he  turned  to  horticulture,  grew  roses,  and 
wrote  a  book  about  the  cultivation  of  those  flowers  which  is  a 
standard  authority. 

As  he  grew  older  the  attacks  moderated,  although  they  never 


148  EXPOSITORY   HIOGRyiPHY 

departed.  Sleeplessness  pursued  him  always,  the  slightest 
cxiitement  would  deprive  him  of  the  power  of  exertion,  his 
>ight  was  always  sensitive,  and  at  times  he  was  bordering  on 
blindness.  In  this  hard-pressed  way  he  fought  the  battle  of 
life.  He  says  himself  that  his  books  took  four  times  as  long 
to  prepare  and  write  as  if  he  had  been  strong  and  able  to  use 
his  faculties.  That  this  should  have  been  the  case  is  little 
wonder,  lor  those  books  came  into  being  with  failing  sight  and 
shattered  nerves,  -vN-ith  sleeplessness  and  pain,  and  the  menace 
of  in>anity  ever  hanging  over  the  brave  man  who,  nevertheless, 
carried  them  through  to  an  end. 

Yet  the  result  of  those  fifty  years,  even  in  amount,  is  a  noble 
one,  and  would  have  been  a  great  achievement  for  a  man  who 
had  never  known  a  sick  day.  In  quality,  and  subject,  and 
method  of  narration,  they  leave  little  to  be  desired.  There,  in 
Parkman's  volumes,  is  told  Aividly,  strongly,  and  truthfully, 
the  history  of  the  great  struggle  between  France  and  England 
for  the  master^'  of  the  North  American  continent,  one  of  the 
most  important  events  of  modern  times.  This  is  not  the  place 
to  give  any  critical  estimate  of  Mr.  Parkman's  work.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  it  stands  in  the  front  rank.  It  is  a  great 
contribution  to  historv',  and  a  still  greater  gift  to  the  literature 
of  this  countr>'.  All  Americans  certainly  should  read  the 
volumes  in  which  Parkman  has  told  that  wonderful  story  of 
hardship  and  adventure,  of  fighting  and  of  statesmanship, 
which  ga\e  this  great  continent  to  the  English  race  and  the 
English  speech.  But  better  than  the  literature  or  the  history 
is  the  heroic  spirit  of  the  man,  which  triumphed  over  pain  and 
all  other  physical  obstacles,  and  brought  a  work  of  such  value 
to  his  countr>^  and  his  time  into  existence.  There  is  a  great 
lesson  as  well  as  a  lofty  example  in  such  a  career,  and  in  the 
service  which  such  a  man  rendered  by  his  life  and  work  to 
literature  and  to  his  countr>'.  On  the  tomb  of  the  conqueror 
of  Quebec  it  is  written:  "Here  lies  Wolfe  victorious."  The 
same  epitaph  might  with  entire  justice  be  car\'ed  above  the 
grave  of  Wolfe's  historian. 


GOLDWIN  SMITH  149 

GOLD  WIN   SMITHS 
James  Bryce 

The  earliest  picture  in  literature  of  a  man  of  wide  knowl- 
edge and  wise  thought  who  has  with  unquenched  powers  lived 
down  into  a  generation  not  his  own  is  that  of  Nestor  as  he  is 
presented  to  us  in  the  Homeric  poems.  Nestor  had  known  the 
grandfathers  and  fathers  of  the  chieftains  of  his  later  years, 
so  all  his  juniors  honored  him,  and  listened  respectfully  to  his 
long  discourses.  But  when  in  the  vast  and  constantly  chang- 
ing society  of  these  modern  days  of  ours  a  sage  or  a  prophet 
outlives  all  his  contemporaries,  there  is  a  certain  risk  that  he 
may  be  misunderstood  and  possibly  even  disparaged  by  the 
generation  which  did  not  know  him  till  his  prime  had  passed, 
and  which  has  forgotten  the  men  and  the  conditions  that  formed 
his  character  and  doctrines.  It  seems  therefore  almost  a  duty 
laid  upon  those  who,  though  much  his  juniors,  remember  Gold- 
win  Smith  in  his  earlier  days,  when  he  was  a  power  in  the  po- 
litical and  literary  world  of  England,  to  put  on  paper  their  im- 
pressions of  him  as  he  was  then,  and  try  to  present  a  view  of 
him  which  may  prevent  misconceptions  either  of  his  personal 
quality  or  of  the  ideas  which  he  held  with  unwavering  convic- 
tion and  strove  during  more  than  half  a  century  to  propagate. 
He  left  a  short  Autobiography ;  and  parts  of  his  correspondence 
have  been  published,  but  it  sometimes  happens  that  neither 
the  letters  which  a  man  writes  nor  what  he  tells  of  himself  con- 
veys an  adequate  picture  of  him  as  he  was  in  his  best  years, 
A  brilliant  talker,  moreover,  with  a  vein  of  sarcastic  humor, 
says  many  things  which  he  does  not  mean  to  be  taken  literally, 
and  which,  when  read  in  cold  print,  may  easily  be  misunder- 
stood. So  it  may  be  worth  while  to  give  some  personal  impres- 
sions formed  in  a  friendship  which  extended  over  more  than 
forty-five  years. 

A  distinguished  man  once  described  him  as  the  last  of  the 

'From  the  North  American  Revinv,  1014.  Copyripht,  19x4,  by  the  North 
American  Review  PubHshing  Company.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


15©  EXPOSITORY   BIOGRAPHY 

prophets  of  tlu-  \"icl*>rian  age,  and  one  might  extend  the  same  1)} 
calling  him  the  last  of  the  prophets  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
one  who  closed  the  line  which  began  with  S.  T.  Coleridge  and 
culminated  in  Thomas  Carlyle.  Less  constructive  than  the 
former  of  these  two  more  famous  men,  and  less  poetical  than 
cither  of  them,  he  was  even  more  fertile  in  production,  and  his 
actixity  covered  a  longer  stretch  of  time.  Born  in  1823  he 
continued  to  write  till  the  eve  of  his  death  in  1910.  He  could 
remember  the  passing  of  the  Reform  Bill  of  1832  and  he  lived 
to  see  the  rejection  by  the  Lords  of  the  Budget  Bill  of  1909,  an 
event  only  second  in  importance  to  that  Bill,  for  it  directly  led 
to  the  great  constitutional  change  effected  by  the  Parliament  Act 
of  191 1.  He  was  six  years  old  at  the  election  of  Andrew  Jack- 
son as  President,  and  he  survived  the  election  of  William  H.  Taft. 
His  father  was  a  physician  living  near  Reading  in  Berkshire, 
a  cultivated  man  in  easy  circumstances,  who  could  afford  to 
send  his  son  to  Eton.  At  that  school  his  abilities  and  especially 
his  gift  for  Latin  and  Greek  composition  made  him  quickly 
conspicuous.  When  he  proceeded  to  Oxford  he  carried  otT  all 
the  honors  for  which  he  competed,  crowning  his  career  by  a 
brilliant  essay  "On  the  Political  and  Moral  Benefits  of  the  Eng- 
lish Reformation,"  in  which  he  showed  himself  already  a  finished 
master  of  style.  Hardly  any  of  his  later  writings  surpassed  this 
work  of  his  twenty-third  year.  Entering  at  the  Bar,  he  lived 
for  some  time  in  London,  where  he  served  as  secretary  to  one 
Royal  Commission  and  as  a  member  of  tw^o  others,  but  having 
some  private  means  he  did  not  seek  legal  practice,  but  gave  his 
spare  time  to  political  and  historical  studies,  and  began  to 
write  for  the  press,  first  (I  think)  for  the  Chronicle,  and  then 
for  the  Saturday  Review  when  the  latter  journal  was  established 
in  1855.  His  Oxford  reputation  had  secured  for  him  access  to 
the  best  political  as  well  as  literary  society  in  London.  He  soon 
came  to  know  most  of  the  leading  men  among  the  Liberals,  and 
was  still  more  at  home  in  the  Peelite  group  in  w^hich  Gladstone, 
Sydney  Herbert,  Cardwell,  Roundell  Palmer  (already  an  Oxford 
friend)  and  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  were  the  most  prominent 
figures.     He  did  not,  however,  try  to  enter  Parliament,  but  in 


GOLDWIN  SMITH  151 

1859  returned  to  Oxford  as  Regius  Professor  of  Modern  His- 
tory, and  there  remained  for  eight  years.  This  was  the  most 
brilliant  and  effective  period  in  his  whole  career.  Oxford 
exactly  suited  his  tastes  and  his  gifts.  As  a  fellow  of  Univer- 
sity College,  he  possessed  a  sort  of  home  Vv'ithin  the  college 
walls,  but  after  a  few  years  he  built  a  house  for  himself  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  city.  He  was  admired  and  respected  by  the 
senior  teachers  and  by  all  those  among  the  undergraduates 
whose  admiration  was  worth  having.  There  were  at  that  time 
in  Oxford  four  men  of  outstanding  talents  and  fame,  Arthur 
Stanley,  Professor  of  Ecclesiastical  History  and  afterward  Dean 
of  Westminster ;  Benjamin  Jowett,  Professor  of  Greek  and  after- 
ward Master  of  Balliol  College ;  Mark  Pattison,  tutor  and  after- 
ward Warden  of  Lincoln  College ;  and  Goldwin  Smith.  Of  these 
four  he  was  the  youngest  and  the  one  who  mixed  most  in  general 
society  and  took  the  largest  part  in  those  ecclesiastical  and 
political  struggles  which  some  would  say  "distracted"  but  as 
the  undergradviates  thought,  delighted  the  University.  Goldwin 
Smith  was  the  natural  leader  of  the  Liberal  party  which  then 
included  nearly  ali  the  ablest  of  the  younger  professors  and 
lecturers.  He  spoke  sometimes  in  Congregation,  the  assembly 
of  resident  graduates.  From  time  to  time  he  issued  a  trenchant 
pamphlet.  He  was  deemed  an  almost  infallible  arbiter  on 
questions  of  scholarship  or  literary  taste,  and  he  was  by  far 
the  most  brilliant  talker  at  all  social  gatherings.  The  question 
which  then  chiefly  agitated  the  University  was  that  of^  abolish- 
ing the  religious  tests  which  confine  professorships,  fellowships, 
and  the  higher  degrees  to  persons  who  declare  themselves,  by 
subscribing  these  texts,  to  be  members  of  the  Established 
Church  of  England.  He  gave  powerful  help  to  the  movement 
for  abolishing  this  restriction  and  wrote  on  its  behalf  the  most 
lucid  and  cogent  of  all  the  pamphlets  and  articles  about  it 
which  issued  copiously  from  the  press.  When  in  1858  the  course 
of  sermons  delivered  on  the  Bampton  foundation  by  H.  L. 
Mansel  (afterward  Dean  of  St.  Paul's)  raised  a  keen  theological 
controversy  in  which  F.  D.  Maurice  and  other  eminent  divines 
of  those  days  took  part,  Goldwin  Smith  published  a  small  book 


152  EXPOsrroKV  r^ioc.RAi'iiv 

entitled  Rational  Rrlif^ion  and  Riilionalislic  Ohjcclions,  which 
contained  some  of  the  most  powerful  passages  that  ever  pro- 
ceeded from  his  pen.  Wit,  argument,  and  sarcasm  were  never 
more  effectively  blended.  He  did  not  ajipend  his  name  to  the 
book,  but  we  all  recognized  it  as  his,  for  the  style  was  un- 
mistakable. 

As  professor  of  history,  he  was  unsuccessful  in  one  direction 
and  wonderfully  successful  in  another.  With  all  his  gifts,  he 
had  not  the  special  gifts  of  the  class  teacher,  freshness,  spon- 
taneity, the  enjoyment  of  reaching  the  intelligence  of  others  by 
bringing  one's  own  mind  into  touch  with  them  and  leading  them 
along  into  new  paths  of  knowledge.  Whether  it  was  shyness 
and  reserve  —  he  was  the  most  reserved  man  I  have  ever 
known  —  or  something  that  lay  still  deeper  in  the  constitution 
of  his  mind,  he  did  not  enjoy  and  scarcely  even  attempted  giving 
of  instruction  to  a  class  of  learners. 

I  recall  my  own  experiences  when  in  1861,  being  then  under- 
graduate, I  went  to  him  on  seeing  public  notice  that  the  Regius 
Professor  would  see  undergraduates  who  were  studying  modern 
history  at  a  given  hour  in  the  hall  of  his  College.  Entering  the 
large  hall,  I  saw  a  long,  gaunt  figure  leaning  back  in  an  armchair 
near  the  fire,  a  grim  figure  apparently  buried  in  meditation. 
Drawing  a  chair  toward  him,  I  sat  down  and  waited.  Presently 
he  said,  "Of  what  did  King  John  die?"  I  did  not  know,  and 
admitted  my  ignorance.  "He  died  of  a  surfeit  of  peaches  and 
new  ale,"  said  the  professor,  adding  in  a  reflective  tone,  "it 
would  give  a  man  a  considerable  belly-ache";  thereupon  he 
proceeded  to  deliver  in  grave  and  measured  accents,  a  discourse 
upon  the  Ange\in  Kings  and  their  policy  which,  so  far  as  I  can 
remember  it,  was  exactly  what  may  be  found  in  the  History  of 
Euflland,  entitled  "The  United  Kingdom,"  which  he  published 
thirty-eight  years  later.  Few  w'ere  the  undergraduates  who 
presented  themselves  before  him  on  these  solemn  occasions, 
and  I  doulat  if  any  were  bold  enough  to  interrupt  the  flow  of 
his  speech  by  any  ciuestions.  Whether  he  ever  formed  a  class 
I  cannot  now  recall,  but  certainly  his  teaching  of  undergraduates 
came  to  very  little. 


GOLDWIN  SMITH 


153 


The  other  part  of  liis  activity  as  professor  consisted  in  de- 
livering several  times  in  each  year  what  were  called  Public 
Lectures  —  i.e.  highly  finished  addresses  to  a  general  Univer- 
sity audience,  which  generally  included  the  chief  teachers  of 
the  place,  with  a  sprinkling  of  the  more  studious  undergraduates, 
and  not  a  few  ladies.  These  were  performances  of  extraordinary 
brilhance,  for  the  thought  soared  high  and  the  literary  form 
was  perfect.  Some  had  touches  of  humor,  others  sparkled  with 
epigram,  but  all  were  stately,  and  one,  on  Gustavus  Adolphus 
and  Wallenstein,  lives  in  my  memory  as  the  finest  lecture  that 
I  ever  heard  at  Oxford.  It  had  the  impressive  solemnity  of  a 
Greek  tragedy. 

Meanwhile  his  interest  in  current  politics  had  been  quicken- 
ing, and  he  grew  more  definitely  Radical  in  his  sentiments. 
Cobden  and  Bright  came  to  visit  him.  He  was  invited  to 
speak  in  the  towns  of  Lancashire  and  Yorkshire,  and  more  than 
one  constituency  in  those  counties  would  gladly  have  sent  him 
as  its  member  to  the  House  of  Commons.  Especially  was  he 
prominent  as  the  most  powerful  voice  and  pen  that  defended 
the  course  of  the  Northern  States  during  the  American  Civil 
War.  In  1864  he  had  gone  to  the  United  States,  had  visited 
Abraham  Lincoln  and  also  General  Grant,  then  commanding  in 
Virginia,  and  had  delivered  at  Boston  a  memorable  address 
which  was  reprinted  in  England  and  produced  a  profound  effect 
there.  From  that  time  his  relations  with  America  were  close 
and  constant. 

In  1867  his  father  fell  ill,  and  he  resigned  his  Chair  at  Oxford 
in  order  to  go  and  live  at  home;  and  in  1868  he  astonished 
Oxford  and  the  world  by  suddenly  announcing  that  he  meant 
to  leave  England  altogether  and  settle  at  Ithaca,  in  New  York 
State,  as  professor  in  the  University  just  founded  there  by  Mr. 
Ezra  Cornell.  Why  should  one  who  in  his  own  country  had 
reached  the  height  of  literary  fame,  one  who  enjoyed  the  friend- 
ship of  the  leading  men  in  politics,  one  who  had  a  Parliamentary 
career  awaiting  him  if  he  would  but  say  the  word  —  why 
should  such  an  one  choose  at  forty-five  years  of  age  to  expatriate 
himself  and  take  up  his  dwelling  in  a  village  among  the  hills  of 


154  EXPOSirOKV   lilOGRAPIiy 

W't'storn  Xrw  \'tirk?  The  explanations  which  he  j;a\e  tlien 
ami  subse(iuenlly,  that  he  wished  to  study  and  write  upon 
American  history,  antl  thought  this  could  be  conveniently  done 
as  a  lecturer  at  Cornell,  do  not  seem  to  explain  so  strange  a 
decision.  To  some  of  his  Oxford  friends  it  appeared  probable 
that  he  was  tired  of  his  own  country  and  a  little  weary  of  the 
Tniversity,  perhaps  weary  of  England,  and  that  not  finite  know- 
ing what  to  make  of  himself  there,  he  cut  the  knot  by  lea\-ing 
the  country  altogether.  And  he  may  possibly  have  felt  on  the 
one  hand  that  if  he  remained  in  England  he  would  be  unable  to 
resist  the  i)ressure  put  on  him  to  enter  the  House  of  Commons, 
while  on  the  other  hand  he  knew  that  its  Parliamentary  life 
would  try  to  the  utmost  liis  extremely  sensitive  temperament. 
His  austere  judgments  and  formidable  sarcasms  would  have 
made  him  many  enemies,  and  however  superior  to  their  assaults 
he  might  have  felt  himself  to  be,  the  wounds  would  rankle. 
In  doubting  his  own  fitness  for  a  popular  assembly  he  was  right. 
His  oratorical  capacity,  remarkable  as  it  was,  did  not  include 
the  power  of  debate.  Neither  would  he  have  found  it  easy  to 
work  with  others  as  a  member  of  a  Cabinet,  for  only  by  com- 
promises do  Cabinets  hold  together. 

To  Ithaca  he  went,  and  there  I  visited  him  in  1870  in  com- 
pany with  his  and  my  friend,  Mr.  Albert  Dicey,  afterward  Pro- 
fessor of  English  Law  at  Oxford.  We  reached  him  just  after 
the  fall  of  the  Emperor  Louis  Napoleon,  and  found  him  happier 
than  I  ever  saw  him  before  or  since,  for  he  detested  the  liona- 
partes  and  all  their  works,  and  had  poured  out  the  vials  of  his 
wrath  upon  the  French  ruler  and  Court  many  a  time  and  oft 
in  the  paper  of  the  Saturday  Review.  With  all  the  Oxford 
Liberals  of  those  days,  except  Jowett,  hatred  of  the  French 
Emperor  was  the  first  article  of  faith,  looking  upon  France  as 
the  disturber  of  Europe.  Goldwin  Smith  was,  not  indeed  an 
admirer  of  Bismarck,  yet  a  warm  partisan  of  Germany  in  the 
war  of  1870.  He  was  more  prone  to  racial  antagonisms  than 
an  historian  ought  to  permit  himself  to  be ;  was  markedly  anti- 
Semitic,  and  had  the  old-fashioned  English  suspicion  of  the 
Gallic  race. 


GOLDWIN   SMITH  155 

To  us  he  seemed  quite  at  home  in  Cornell.  He  liked  the 
scenery  of  Cayuga  Lake,  was  more  affable  to  the  undergraduates 
than  he  had  ever  been  at  Oxford,  enjoyed  the  simplicity  of 
American  ways  and  the  friendliness  of  American  manners. 
Indeed  he  never  ceased  to  have  a  warm  affection  for  the  Ameri- 
can people,  and  in  later  days  was  fond  of  coming  to  spend  a  few 
days  in  Boston  or  Washington  or  Lakewood,  New  Jersey. 
But  he  had  already  formed  a  low  opinion  of  politics  as  practiced 
in  the  United  States.  Tweed  and  his  gang  were  then  ruling 
New  York,  and  when,  after  listening  to  his  description  of  the 
doings  of  the  Ring  and  their  allies  Jim  Fisk  and  Judge  Barnard, 
we  asked  him  what  the  "good  citizens"  could  do  to  protect 
themselves,  his  answer  was,  "Hire  gladiators,  perhaps,  as  they 
did  at  Rome  in  the  days  of  Cicero."  He  was  incensed  at  a 
speech  which  Sumner  had  shortly  before  delivered  against 
England  in  the  Senate,  apropos  of  the  Alabama  claims,  for  though 
he  had  quitted  England  forever,  his  English  patriotism  and  sen- 
sitiveness for  his  country  had  suffered  no  eclipse. 

In  187 1  he  went  to  Toronto,  where  he  had  some  relations, 
and  presently  settled  there,  though  he  retained  his  connection 
with  Cornell,  and  from  time  to  time  came  across  the  border  to 
lecture.  In  1875  he  married  a  Boston  lady,  widow  of  an  emi- 
nent Canadian,  and  thenceforward  made  Toronto  his  home. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  happy  than  his  domestic  life 
till  this  union  ended  with  his  wife's  death  thirty-three  years 
later. 

He  had  not  been  long  in  Canada  before  he  threw  himself  into 
the  politics  of  the  Dominion,  which  the  British  North  America 
act  of  1867  had  recently  called  into  being;  and  from  that  time 
till  his  last  illness  he  never  ceased  to  write  on  public  affairs. 
It  is  however  only  one  branch  of  his  political  activity  in  his 
adopted  country  that  needs  to  be  noticed,  and  to  it  I  shall  pres- 
ently advert. 

Regarded  as  a  politician,  Goldwin  Smith  belonged  to  a  type 
rare  in  his  own  generation  and  now  practically  extinct,  a  type 
whose  nearest  affinities  were  to  be  found  in  the  republicans  of 
Rome  or,  still  better,  such  English  statesmen  of  the  seventeenth 


15^ 


PIXPOSITORV   BJOGRA PIIY 


centun-  as  Pyni,  or  Sir  Henry  Vane  the  younger,  or  Algernon 
Sydney.  He  was  an  austere  moralist,  with  more  of  the  ancient 
Stoic  than  of  the  Christian  in  his  view  of  life,  and  his  politics 
were  built  on  the  foundation  of  his  ethics.  Theoretically  a  re- 
publican, and  i")ractically,  as  he  would  hav'e  deemed  himself,  a 
democrat,  there  was  nothing  Jeffersonian  in  his  view  of  the 
people.  He  felt  for  the  sulTerings  of  the  poor  as  a  Christian 
ought  to  do,  and  he  valued  human  equality  as  a  philosopher 
ought  to  do.  He  disliked  courts  and  all  distinctions  of  rank, 
and  above  all  the  power  of  wealth.  But  he  had  no  great  faith  in 
the  multitude.  His  Radicalism  in  British  politics  expressed 
itself  not  so  much  in  wishing  to  deliver  power  to  the  masses  as 
in  wishing  to  take  it  away  from  the  classes  that  were,  as  he 
thought,  abusing  it  for  their  selfish  purposes.  He  had  not  the 
making  of  a  jiopular  leader,  for  he  would  have  felt  bound  to  tell 
the  people  of  their  faults. 

When  in  the  fifties  he  began  to  think  and  write  on  the  politics 
of  Britain,  the  belief  that  the  colonies  would  soon  fall  away 
from  the  mother-country,  and  that  it  would  be  for  their  good 
and  her  good  that  they  should  become  independent  communi- 
ties, was  pretty  general  among  British  statesmen.  It  may  be 
found  expressed  even  in  a  letter  of  Disraeli's,  and  it  was  doubt- 
less held  by  Cobden,  though  I  do  not  remember  that  Mr.  Glad- 
stone ever  committed  himself  to  it.  Goldwin  Smith  accepted  it 
the  more  readily  because  his  feelings  of  humanity  were  often 
shocked  by  the  oppressions  practiced  by  Europeans  upon  the 
native  races  with  whom  they  came  in  contact,  and  he  wished  to 
keep  England  free  from  any  such  stain.  Jingoism,  though  not 
yet  called  by  that  name,  was  just  beginning  to  show  itself  in 
England,  and  it  filled  him  with  disgust.  In  1863  he  published 
in  a  book,  called  The  Empire,  a  series  of  letters  in  w^hich  he 
argued  against  any  further  extension  of  British  dominion,  and 
assumed  the  ultimate  independence  of  the  colonies  inhal)ited  by 
white  men  to  be  the  natural  and  proper  issue  of  their  develop- 
ment. When  he  settled  in  Canada  he  applied  this  doctrine  to 
her  case,  at  first  contemplating  her  growth  into  an  independent 
republic,  but  afterward  conceiving  that  she  ought  to  unite  with 


GOLDWIN  SMITH 


157 


the  United  States.  Geographical  and  commercial  considera- 
tions seemed  to  him  decisive  on  the  point.  When  it  was  pointed 
out  to  him  that  it  was  better  that  more  than  one  experiment  in 
democracy  should  be  tried,  and  that  the  English-speaking  race 
on  the  American  continent  ought  not  to  put  all  their  eggs  in  one 
basket,  he  half  admitted  some  force  in  the  argument,  but 
presently  fell  back  to  his  previous  conviction.  This  view,  which 
had  in  1871  some  supporters  in  Canada,  found  less  and  less 
favor  there  as  years  went  on  and  as  the  Dominion  grew.  But 
Goldmn  Smith  was  not  the  man  to  yield  to  any  majority,  how- 
ever large.  The  more  impopular  his  opinions  became,  the  more 
vehemently  did  he  continue  to  urge  them,  till  at  last  most 
Canadians  knew  him  chiefly  as  the  man  who  wanted  them  to 
turn  their  backs  on  the  mother-land  and  be  swallowed  up  in 
the  vast  republic  to  the  South.  He  was,  for  a  scholar,  and  his- 
torian of  first-rate  ability,  extraordinarily  set  and  dogged  in  his 
views  and  unwilling  to  recognize  the  signs  of  the  times  when 
they  went  against  him.  In  1897  he  was  well  aware  to  how 
much  odium  his  attitude  had  exposed  him,  for  I  remember  that 
when  on  the  occasion  of  a  conferring  of  some  honorary  degrees 
by  a  Canadian  University,  I  observed  to  him,  "You  of  course 
have  one  already,"  he  replied  that  he  was  the  last  person  to 
whom  they  v/ould  give  one.  It  was  not  until  1907  that  he 
sadly  admitted  to  me  that  his  cause  was  hopeless,  there  being 
by  that  time  virtually  no  Canadian  voices  raised  in  favor  of 
union  with  the  United  States. 

This  discouragement,  however,  and  this  sense  of  his  own  un- 
popularity, neither  lessened  his  activity  nor  embittered  his 
language.  He  was  far  too  proud  to  complain,  or  to  let  any  one 
conceive  whatever  vexation  he  felt,  and  he  continued  to  pour 
forth  a  stream  of  brilliant  writing  on  current  Canadian  issues, 
denouncing  anything  that  savored,  however  faintly,  of  corrup- 
tion, censuring  what  he  called  the  "oijportunism"  of  successive 
Prime  Ministers,  deploring  the  evils  of  party  government,  and 
pointing  out  to  the  Canadian  farmers  the  benefits  which  free 
trade  would  confer  on  them.  His  productivity  was  the  more 
wonderful  because  he  wrote  with  equal  mastery  on  historical, 


15S  EXPOSITORY  BIOGRAPHY 

economic,  and  litcniry  topics.  His  magazine  called  The  By- 
stander, was  all  the  work  of  his  single  pen.  Neither  did  he  neg- 
lect ICuropean  alTairs.  He  Ireciuently  wrote  letters  to  English 
newspapers ;  and  wlien  Mr.  Gladstone  brought  in  his  first 
Home  Rule  bill,  in  18S6,  he  appeared  as  one  of  its  most  deter- 
mined opponents.  To  many  English  Liberals  this  came  as  a 
painful  surprise,  for  he  had  written,  thirty  years  previously, 
the  most  powerful  indictment  of  English  rule  in  Ireland  that 
had  ever  proceeded  from  an  English  historian.  Irish  History 
and  Irish  Character  is  one  of  the  best  of  his  books,  presenting  in 
small  compass  a  complete  sketch  of  the  causes  which  produced 
the  misfortunes  and  the  discontent  of  the  Irish  people.  How- 
ever, the  remedy  which  Mr.  Gladstone  proposed  seemed  to 
him  to  go  too  far,  and  his  sympathy  had  been,  like  Mr.  Bright's, 
alienated  by  the  acts  of  violence  which  had  stained  the  Irish 
agitation,  and  by  the  bitterly  anti-English  attitude  at  the 
election  of  1885  of  some  of  the  Irish  leaders.^ 

Little  as  his  opponents  knew  it,  Goldwin  Smith  was  an  in- 
tensely patriotic  Englishman,  though  his  idea  of  patriotism 
ditTered  from  theirs,  and  disposed  him  to  openly  condemn  his 
country  when,  as  in  the  case  of  the  South  African  War,  he 
thought  her  in  the  wrong. 

He  was  more  of  a  statesman  than  of  a  politician,  and  more 
of  a  political  thinker  than  of  a  practical  statesman,  by  which 
I  mean  that  his  gift  lay  rather  in  seeing  the  principles  to  be 
applied  than  in  knowing  when  and  how  to  apply  them.  His 
thinking  was  broad,  luminous,  comprehensive,  elevated,  and  if 
it  was  less  imaginative  than  Burke's  and  less  ingenious  than 
Walter  Bagehot's,  there  was  perhaps  no  one,  except  Bagehot, 
among  his  contemporaries  who  rose  superior  to  him  in  grasp, 
and  certainly  no  one  who  equalled  him  in  the  power  of  expres- 
sion.    Yet  this  very  gift  of  expression  was  a  source  of  weakness, 

>  In  the  course  of  his  denunciations  of  Home  Rule  he  attacked  with  some  acrimony 
Mr.  E.  L.  Godkin,  who  was  advocating  it.  Mr.  Godkin,  who  never  took  anything 
"lying  down,"  replied  in  a  similar  strain,  and  a  breach  of  friendly  relations  followed. 
Some  years  afterward  Goldwin  .Smith  repented,  and  wrote  desiring  a  reconciliation. 
Godkin  accepted  gladly  the  outstretched  hand.  Both  were  preachers  of  righteous- 
ness in  politics,  so  there  was  joy  among  their  common  friends. 


GOLDWIN  SMITH  159 

or  perhaps  the  revelation  of  a  fault  in  the  structure  of  his  mind. 
When  he  came  to  England  in  1876  for  the  first  time  after  his 
departure  in  1868,  I  invited  several  eminent  historians  to  meet 
him  at  dinner,  and  among  them  John  Richard  Green.  Goldwin 
Smith  talked  brilliantly,  as  always;  and  the  next  time  I  met 
Green  I  asked  him  how  he  had  been  impressed.  "He  ap- 
peared to  me,"  was  the  reply,  "to  be  always  locking  the  door." 
Green  meant,  as  he  explained,  that  Goldwin's  habit  was  to  sum 
up  all  he  had  to  say  on  a  subject  in  two  or  three  striking  phrases, 
which  seemed  to  leave  nothing  more  to  be  said,  and  arrested 
the  further  play  of  mind  and  talk  on  the  question  under  dis- 
cussion. Never  before  had  I  quite  understood  what  it  was 
that  made  his  conversation,  full  of  knowledge,  reflection,  and 
penetration  as  it  was,  unsatisfying.  His  intellect,  strong  and 
clear,  lacked  that  sort  of  fineness  which  perceives  that  there  is 
a  subtlety  in  nature  —  i.e.  in  human  things  as  well  as  external 
objects  —  which  no  power  of  words  can  fully  compass  or  ex- 
press, and  it  lacked  also  that  flexibility  which  enters  into  the 
minds  of  others  and  feels  that  the  phrase  which  satisfies  the 
speaker  himself  may  not  satisfy  them.  His  conversation  was 
not  monologue,  for  he  did  not,  like  Macaulay,  appropriate  the 
field  to  the  exclusion  of  others.  But  it  was  the  deliverance  of 
his  own  opinions  rather  than  an  interchange  of  ideas,  and  the 
interlocutor  seldom  felt  that  what  he  put  forward  had  much 
effect  in  modifying  what  Goldwin  had  already  settled  for  him- 
self. 

There  was  in  him  that  note,  characteristic  of  the  prophet, 
that  you  could  not  argue  with  him,  for,  like  other  prophets, 
he  was  eventually  a  solitary  soul,  and  did  his  thinking  alone, 
brooding  in  silence  over  all  he  read  or  saw,  seldom  influenced 
by  others.  When  he  began  to  deliver  himself,  it  would  hardly 
have  startled  one  if  the  first  sentence  had  been  "Thus  saith  the 
Lord."  Without  the  glowing  intensity  of  Mazzini,  he  gave  the 
same  impression  of  unshakable  conviction.  The  weakness  of 
this  splendid  independence  is  that  it  often  disables  a  man  from, 
following  the  movements  of  opinion  in  the  world  around  him. 
As  Mazzini  would  never  admit  that  Italy  could  be  free  and 


l6o  EXPOSITORY   lilOGRAPIIY 

prosperous  except  under  a  republic,  Goklwin  Smith  continued 
to  cling  to  the  ideals  and  doctrines  of  his  early  manhood.  Some 
of  those  doctrines  have  been  proved  to  be  sound.  It  would 
have  been  well  for  the  British  people  if  they  had  taken  the 
advice  he  gave  them  forty  years  ago  to  reconstruct  their  House 
of  Lords  in  a  deliberate  way  before  a  party  crisis  arrived. 
But  even  l)efore  old  age  overtook  him  he  had  lost  touch  with 
British  politics,  though  he  continued  to  write  about  them  with 
the  old  confidence.  About  seventeen  years  ago  I  had  from 
him  one  letter  after  another  urging  that  English  Liberals  should 
unite  themselves  and  find  a  live  political  issue  in  a  campaign 
for  the  disestablishing  of  the  Church  of  England.  That  was 
just  the  time  when  every  careful  observer  in  England  had  begun 
to  perceive  that  the  sentiment  for  disestablishment  was  becom- 
ing weaker,  because  other  questions  had  begun  to  fill  the  public 
mind,  and  that  to  raise  the  issue  would  bring  no  strength  to 
any  party  that  raised  it.  Aversion  to  ecclesiastical  power  had 
been  always  among  the  principles  he  most  cherished.  It  was 
the  only  thing  he  had  in  common  wth  Froude,  whom  he  heartily 
distrusted  and  disliked.  Though  he  had  dropped  all  dogmas, 
he  was  of  a  profoundly  rehgious  temper,  and  held  that  religion 
had  suffered  and  would  continue  to  suffer  from  any  connection 
with  the  civil  power,  whether  as  ruled  or  as  ruler. 

Though  two  prophets  could  be  hardly  more  unlike  than  were 
he  and  Carlyle,  there  was  this  point  of  resemblance,  that  both 
talked  exactly  like  their  books.  Carlyle  was,  to  be  sure,  far 
more  picturesque  and  vivid,  but  Goldwin  Smith's  discourse 
was  more  perfect  in  form. .  Evcrv'  sentence  might  have  been 
printed  just  as  it  fell  from  his  lips  without  needing  any  correc- 
tion, yet  there  was  no  sense  of  effort,  no  straining  after  effect. 
He  had,  indeed,  a  genius  for  expression,  and  a  power  over  lan- 
guage, even  more  remarkable  than  his  power  of  thought.  Nor 
was  this  confined  to  English.  His  Latin  style  was  unexception- 
ally  classical  —  i.e.  whatever  a  Roman  might  have  thought  of 
it,  no  one  at  0.xford  or  Cambridge  could  detect  any  error.  Yet 
it  was  not,  like  the  Latin  compositions  of  nearly  all  modern 
scholars,  imitated  from  Cicero  or  Livy  or  Tacitus.     It  was  his 


GOLDWIN  SMITH  l6l 

own  style,  just  as  the  Latin  of  Erasmus  or  Francis  Bacon  is 
their  own.  He  handled  the  language  with  the  same  ease  and 
felicity  as  he  did  his  mother-tongue. 

He  was  one  of  four  men  who  may  be  deemed  to  have  been 
in  his  time  the  chief  masters  of  English  prose.  Two  of  them 
everybody  will  place  in  the  front  rank.  I  mean  J.  H.  Newman 
and  John  Ruskin.  A  third  is  less  known,  because  he  wrote  on 
subjects  that  do  not  attract  the  general  public,  but  those  who 
have  studied  the  collected  essays  of  F.  W.  H.  Myers,  a  poet 
who  wrote  so  little  that  he  is  almost  forgotten  except  by  those 
who  read  him  when  he  and  they  were  under  thirty,  will  prob- 
ably agree  with  the  view  that  no  richer  and  more  melodious 
prose  has  been  produced  in  our  time  The  supreme  merit  of 
Goldwin  Smith's  writing  is  the  union  ot  clearness,  strength,  and 
brevity.  Its  weakness  lies  not  in  the  diction,  for  that  is  hardly 
to  be  surpassed,  but  in  the  fact  that,  in  his  articles  or  books  the 
argument  does  not  march.  Each,  be  it  book  or  article,  is  not 
so  much  a  connected  whole  as  a  series  of  splendid  paragraphs. 
There  is  no  effort,  and  the  epigrams  are  not  dropped  in  or 
plastered  on  to  light  up  the  narrative  and  argument.  They 
seem  ine^dtable,  because  the  most  natural  as  well  as  exact 
expression  of  the  writer's  thought. 

Surely  no  one  in  our  time  Kas  possessed  an  equal  gift  for 
terseness.  His  history  of  the  United  States  is  a  slim  volume 
which  can  be  read  through  between  lunch  and  dinner,  but  it 
contains  everything  that  is  essential  for  a  comprehension  of  the 
growth  of  the  North  American  colonies,  of  the  causes  and  course 
of  the  Revolutionary  struggle,  of  the  struggle  over  slavery  and 
the  Ci\dl  War  that  followed.  Compressed  narrative  is  usually 
dry  narrative.  But  his  skill  in  selecting  the  salient  facts  and 
his  power  of  setting  in  the  strongest  light,  by  a  few  touches,  a 
character  or  a  dramatic  situation  keeps  the  reader's  interest 
from  flagging  for  a  moment. 

Froude  also  wrote  well.  But  one  could  not  trust  Froude; 
for  he  was  a  partisan,  he  was  capable  of  hideous  blunders,  and 
he  was  apt  to  sacrifice  truth  to  literary  effect.  Goldwin  Smith 
was  as  thorough  in  the  substance  as  he  was  finished  in  the  execu- 

M 


l62  EXrOSITORV    lUOCRArilV 

tion  oi  his  work.  I  niiK'niher  ii  rciiiark  of  K.  A.  Freeman,  made 
when  they  were  both  in  Oxford:  "Where,"  he  said,  "does 
Cioldwin  gel  his  knowledge?  He  is  not  a  great  reader,  he  is 
not  what  you  woukl  call  a  learned  man,  like  Stubbs,  yet  he 
seems  never  to  make  mistakes."  He  was  not  very  learned, 
but  he  had  that  instinct  of  a  trained  historical  mind  wliich 
keeps  a  man  out  of  errors.  If  he  knew  a  thing,  he  knew  it  right. 
If  he  did  not  know  it,  he  knew  his  own  ignorance  and  avoided 
the  pitfalls  into  which  heedless  men  stumbled.  And  he  had  also 
a  talent  for  hitting  on  some  small  trait  or  incident  characteristic 
of  the  man  or  the  time,  and  enlivening  his  narrative  by  it. 
One  of  the  charms  of  his  talk  was  the  profusion  of  anecdotes  of 
the  famous  men  of  the  generation  just  before  his  own  which  he 
liked  to  pour  forth,  as  he  lay  back  in  his  leather  armchair  beside 
the  fireplace  in  his  stately  old  house  at  Toronto,  raising  and 
dropping  his  head  as  he  talked,  poising  the  heel  of  one  foot  upon 
the  toe  of  the  other,  and  slowly  swinging  both  from  side  to  side. 
WTiy,  with  talents  which  made  him  the  peer  of  the  greatest 
men  of  his  time  in  England  or  in  North  America,  and  with  the 
enormous  advantage  of  being  able  to  command  his  whole  time 
because  he  ne\'er  had  to  work  for  his  li\ang,  why  did  not  his 
untiring  industry  issue  in  some  historical  or  philosophical  work 
which  would  have  seized  and  held  the  attention  of  the  world 
and  preserved  his  name  for  many  a  year  to  come  ?  The  ob\dous 
answer  is  that  his  interest  in  what  was  passing,  and  his  eager- 
ness to  refute  errors  and  denounce  e\dl-doers,  lured  him  into 
journalism  and  made  it  a  habit  without  which  he  could  not 
live.  But  one  may  suspect  that  his  mind  was  really  rather 
critical  than  constructive ;  and  that  some  sort  of  subconscious- 
ness of  this  fact  prevented  him  from  essaying  any  very  large 
task  in  which  he  would  have  had  to  fit  many  parts  into  a  great 
whole.  Moreover  the  historian,  hardly  less  than  the  politician, 
must  be  able  to  go  on  always  learning,  following  the  movements 
of  increasing  knowledge  and  the  course  of  events  as  they  hap- 
pen, and  letting  all  the  breezes  of  the  time  blow  through  his 
mind.  This  was  not  Goldwnn  Smith's  way.  His  opinions  on 
history,  as  well  as  on  politics,  had  crystallized  long  before  he 


GOLDWIN  SMITH  1 63 

was  fifty,  and  though  he  added  much  to  his  store  of  knowledge, 
his  views  underwent  no  development.  For  thirty  years  he 
continued  to  repeat  that  party  government  was  a  crying  e\al 
both  in  Canada  and  in  Britain,  but  never  did  he  suggest  any  other 
means  of  working  a  Parliamentary  system.  In  this  glacial 
fixity  of  opinion  he  resembled  Disraeli  and  Bright,  who  (from 
causes  that  need  not  be  here  discussed)  retained  through  life, 
very  little  modified,  the  views  each  held  when  he  entered  Par- 
liament, but  was  unlike  Peel  and  Gladstone,  both  of  whom  kept 
an  open,  and,  as  some  thought,  a  too  open,  mind.  But  one  must 
remember  that  Peel  and  Gladstone  lived  in  the  middle  of  the 
strenuous  and  multiform  public  life  of  England,  where  many 
influences  of  men  equal  to  them  in  knowledge  if  not  in  power 
were  always  playing  on  them.  Goldwin  Smith  stood  isolated 
in  Toronto,  in  little  direct  contact  with  practical  politicians,  his 
intellectual  primacy  so  generally  recognized  that  the  views  of 
others  failed  to  have  their  due  effect  upon  him.  Better  had 
it  been  for  him  to  have  remained  in  the  midst  of  the  political 
life  of  London  or  of  the  intellectual  life  of  Oxford.  As  things 
turned  out,  one  must  regretfully  admit  that  his  life  work  in 
politics  at  least  was  less  than  might  have  been  expected  from 
such  admirable  gifts.  So  far  as  Canada  was  concerned,  he  was 
the  apostle  of  a  lost  cause ;  and  perhaps  his  greatest  service, 
both  to  the  United  States  and  to  Great  Britain,  was  rendered 
in  the  days  of  the  American  Civil  War,  for  at  a  time  when  a 
large  part  of  what  called  itself  "society"  in  England,  and  still 
more  in  France,  had  shown  itself  in  sympathy  with  the  Slave 
States,  his  writings  presented  the  case  for  the  Union  with  in- 
comparable earnestness  and  power. 

Those  who  were  struck  by  his  grave  and  almost  stern  aspect, 
no  less  than  those  who  read  his  scathing  censures  of  the  sins  of 
public  men,  were  apt  to  mistake  his  character.  Austere  indeed 
it  was,  making  too  little  indulgence  for  human  weakness,  but 
beneath  his  austerity  there  was  not  only  an  abundant  sense  of 
humor,  but  a  great  tenderness  and  power  of  sympathy.  His 
many  acts  of  personal  kindness  to  the  suffering  and  needy  were 
known  to  few,  for  he  carefully  concealed  them.     His  willingness 


l64  EXPOSITOKV   lilOORAPIlV 

to  exert  himself  and  spend  his  time  in  the  ]>r(imotion  of  any 
ijood  cause  was  unfailing.  He  was  perfectly  disinterested, 
altoDiether  suiH^rior  to  any  of  the  vul<^ar  ambitions.  Though 
more  sensitive  than  a  pohtician  ought  to  be,  he  was  not  vindic- 
tive. His  strictures  on  DisraeU  were  no  more  severe  after  Dis- 
raeli attacked  him  than  they  had  been  before,  and  they  were 
due.  not  to  any  personal  resentment,  but  to  the  scorn  which  he 
felt  for  Disraeli's  untruthfulness.  No  imputation  could  have  been 
more  absurd  than  that  which  the  latter  cast  on  him  of  being  "a 
social  parasite,"  for  he  was  an  intensely  proud  man  who  never 
asked  a  favor  or  met  any  one  except  on  terms  of  equality. 
With  him,  indeed,  pride  was  so  great  as  to  exclude  vanity.  He 
hardly  ever  referred  to  any  success  he  had  acliieved,  and  when  his 
Oxford  friends  \\'ished  to  present  to  the  University  picture  gallery 
in  the  Bodleian  a  portrait  or  bust  of  him," he  declined  the  com- 
pliment. It  was  a  pity,  for  he  had  a  noble  head,  with  features 
which  well  expressed  the  dignit>-  of  his  character.  Few  men  ha\'e 
so  consistently  lived  up  to  the  lofty  standard  of  conduct  which 
they  set  for  themselves  and  exacted  from  others,  and  few  have 
sho\\Ti  in  their  writings  as  well  as  in  their  action  a  more  constant 
loyalty  to  truth  and  to  the  highest  interests  of  humanity. 

The  last  time  I  ever  saw  him  in  public  was  in  1907  at  a 
gathering  of  the  Canadian  Club  in  Toronto  under  the  presi- 
dency of  the  Governor  of  the  Province.  He  attended  it,  not 
meaning  to  speak,  though  he  ultimately  said  a  few  words. 
There  was  in  the  large  and  crowded  hall  hardly  any  one,  either 
among  the  elder  men,  leaders  in  local  society  or  of  the  youth 
of  the  city,  who  agreed  -vv-ith  his  political  x-iews,  and  many  of 
the  younger  sort  had  been  brought  up  to  look  upon  him  as  the 
dangerous  man  who  wished  to  see  Canada  annexed  to  the 
United  States.  But  when  he  walked  slowly  through  the 
throng  to  his  seat  on  the  dais,  his  stately  figure  still  erect  in 
extreme  old  age,  they  all  remembered  how  many  acts  of  private 
benevolence  he  had  done,  how  sincere,  how  upright,  how  cour- 
ageous his  course  of  life  had  been,  what  an  example  of  un- 
selfishness he  had  set,  what  lustre  his  genius  had  reflected  on 
their  city  and  their  country,  and  a  sudden  tempest  of  applause 
swept  over  the  hall. 


I.    E.  INFORMAL   ESSAY 

THE  REALM  OF  THE   COMMONPLACE 

L.  H.  Bailey 

The  best  possible  introduction  to  nature  is  that  afforded  by 
a  sympathetic  person  who  knows  some  aspect  of  nature  well. 
You  imbibe  your  friend's  enthusiasm  at  the  same  time  that 
you  learn  birds,  or  plants,  or  fishes,  or  the  sculpturing  of  the 
fields.  By  enthusiasm  I  mean  never  exclamation,  but  that 
quiet  and  persistent  zeal  that  follows  a  subject  to  the  end  for 
the  love  of  it,  even  though  it  take  a  month.  This  person  need 
not  be  a  professed  "scientist,"  unless  he  is  also  a  good  teacher 
and  knows  what  is  most  important  in  the  subject  and  most 
relevant  to  you.  The  earlier  the  child  has  such  a  guide  —  if 
arrived  at  the  age  of  reason  —  the  more  vital  and  lasting  the 
effect :  even  one  or  two  excursions  afield  may  change  the  point 
of  view  and  open  the  way  for  new  experiences,  although  neither 
the  guide  nor  the  child  may  be  aware  of  it  at  the  time.  .  .  . 

That  which  is  worth  knowing  is  that  which  is  nearest  at  hand. 
The  nearest  at  hand,  in  the  natural  surroundings,  is  the  weather. 
Every  day  of  our  lives,  on  land  or  sea,  whether  we  will  or  no, 
the  air  and  the  clouds  and  the  sky  environ  us.  So  variable  is 
this  environment,  from  morning  till  evening  and  from  evening 
till  morning  and  from  season  to  season,  that  we  are  always 
conscious  of  it.  It  is  to  the  changes  in  this  en\dronment  that 
we  apply  the  folk-word  "weather,"  — weather,  that  is  akin  to 
wind. 

No  man  is  efficient  who  is  at  cross-purposes  with  the  main 
currents  of  his  life ;  no  man  is  content  and  happy  who  is  out  of 
sympathy  with  the  environment  in  which  he  is  born  to  live: 

1  From  The  Outlook  to  Nature.  The  Macmillan  Company,  Revised  Edition,  igii. 
Reprinted  by  permission. 

i6s 


1 66 


INFORMAL  ESSAY 


so  the  hahil  of  i;rumblinK  at  the  weather  is  the  most  senseless 
ami  futile  of  all  expenditures  of  human  elTort.  Day  by  clay 
we  complain  and  fret  at  the  weather,  and  when  we  are  done 
with  it  we  have  —  the  weather.  The  same  amount  of  energy 
put  into  wholesome  work  would  ha\e  set  civilization  far  in  ad- 
vance of  its  present  state.  Weather  is  not  a  human  institution, 
and  therefore  it  cannot  be  "bad."  I  have  seen  bad  men,  have 
rcail  bad  books,  have  made  bad  lectures,  have  lived  two  years 
about  Boston,  —  but  I  have  never  seen  bad  weather  ! 

"Bad  weather"  is  mainly  the  fear  of  spoiling  one's  clothes. 
Fancy  clothing  is  one  of  the  greatest  obstacles  to  a  knowledge 
of  nature :  in  this  regard,  the  farm  boy  has  an  immense  ad- 
vantage. It  is  a  misfortune  not  to  have  gone  barefoot  in  one's 
youth.  A  man  cannot  be  a  naturalist  in  patent-leather  shoes. 
The  perfecting  of  the  manufacture  of  elaborate  and  fragile 
fabrics  correlates  well  \nth  our  growing  habit  of  living  indoors. 
Our  clothing  is  made  chiefly  for  fair  weather ;  when  it  becomes 
worn  we  use  it  for  stormy  weather,  although  it  may  be  in  no 
respect  stormy  weather  clothing.  I  am  always  interested, 
when  abroad  with  persons,  in  noting  the  various  mental  atti- 
tudes toward  wind;  and  it  is  apparent  that  most  of  the  dis- 
pleasure from  the  wind  arises  from  fear  of  disarranging  the 
coifture  or  from  the  difficulty  of  controlling  a  garment. 

If  our  clothes  are  not  made  for  the  weather,  then  we  have 
failed  to  adapt  ourselves  to  our  conditions,  and  we  are  in  worse 
state  than  the  beasts  of  the  field.  Much  of  our  clothing  serves 
neither  art  nor  utility.  Nothing  can  be  more  prohibitive  of  an 
interest  in  nature  than  a  millinery  "hat,"  even  though  it  be 
distinguished  for  its  floriculture,  landscape  gardening,  and  natu- 
ral history. 

Our  estimate  of  weather  is  perhaps  the  best  criterion  of  our 
outlook  on  nature  and  the  world.  The  first  fault  that  I  would 
correct  in  mankind  is  that  of  finding  fault  with  the  weather. 
We  should  put  the  child  right  toward  the  world  in  which  he  is 
to  live.  What  would  you  think  of  the  mariner  who  goes  to  sea 
only  in  fair  weather?  What  have  not  the  weather  and  the 
climate  done  for  the  steadiness  and  virility  of  the  people  of 


THE  REALM  OF   THE  COMMONPLACE  167 

New  England  ?  And  is  this  influence  working  as  strongly  to-day 
as  in  the  times  when  we  had  learned  less  how  to  escape  the 
weather  ?  We  must  believe  in  all  good  physical  comfort,  —  it 
contributes  to  the  amount  of  work  that  we  can  accomplish; 
but  we  have  forgotten  that  it  is  possible  to  bear  an  open  storm 
with  equanimity  and  comfort.  The  person  who  has  never 
been  caught  in  rain  and  enjoyed  it  has  missed  a  privilege  and  a 
blessing. 

Give  us  the  rain  and  the  hail  and  the  snow,  the  mist,  the 
crashing  thunder,  and  the  cold  biting  wind  !  Let  us  be  men 
enough  to  face  it,  and  poets  enough  to  enjoy  it.  In  "bad" 
weather  is  the  time  to  go  abroad  in  field  and  wood.  You  are 
fellow  then  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree ;  and  you  are  escaped 
from  the  crowd  that  is  forever  crying  and  clanging  at  your  heels. 

The  first  consideration  of  special  study  should  be  the  in- 
habitants of  your  yard  and  garden  :  they  are  yours ;  or  if  they 
are  not  yours,  you  are  not  living  a  right  life.  Do  you  wish  to 
study  botany?  There  are  weeds  in  your  dooryard  or  trees  on 
your  lawn.  You  say  that  they  are  not  interesting  :  that  is  not 
their  fault. 

We  have  made  the  mistake  all  along  of  studying  only  special 
cases.  We  seem  to  have  made  up  our  minds  that  certain  fea- 
tures are  interesting  and  that  all  other  features  are  not.  It 
is  no  mere  accident  that  many  persons  like  plants  and  animals 
but  dislike  botany  and  zoology.  It  is  more  important  to  study 
plants  than  special  subjects  as  exemplified  in  plants.  Why  does 
the  weed  grow  just  there?  Answer  this,  and  you  have  put 
yourself  in  pertinent  relation  with  the  world  out-of-doors. 

If  one  is  a  farmer,  he  has  the  basis  for  his  natural  history  in 
his  own  possessions,  —  animals  domestic  and  wild,  plants 
domestic  and  wild,  free  soil,  pastures  and  lowlands  and  wood- 
lands, crops  growing  and  ripening,  the  daily  expression  of  the 
moving  pageant  of  nature.  Zoological  garden  and  botanical 
garden  are  here  at  his  hand  and  lying  under  his  title-deed,  to 
have  and  to  hold  as  he  will.     No  other  man  has  such  opportunity. 

I  would  also  call  the  attention  of  the  townsman  to  his  oppor- 
tunity.    If  the  range  of  nature  is  not  his,  he  still  has  the  wind 


1 68  JNFOR.UAL   J-ISSAY 

and  rain,  the  street  trees,  the  grass  of  lawns,  the  weed  in  its 
crevice,  the  town-hn-ing  birds,  the  insects,  and  I  hope  that  he 
has  his  garden.  Even  the  city  has  its  touch  of  natural  history 
—  for  all  things  in  the  end  are  natural,  and  we  recognize  thcni 
il  we  have  had  the  training  of  a  wholesome  outlook  to  the  coni- 
naonplace.  .  .  . 

I  would  preach  the  surface  of  the  earth,  because  we  walk  on  it. 

When  a  youth,  I  was  told  that  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
study  geology  to  any  purpose,  because  there  were  no  outcrop- 
pings  of  rocks  in  my  region.  So  I  grew  up  in  ignorance  of  the 
fact  that  every  Uttle  part  of  the  earth's  surface  has  a  history, 
that  there  are  reasons  for  sandbanks  and  for  bogs  as  well  as 
for  stratified  rocks.  This  is  but  another  illustration  of  the  old 
book-sla\'ery,  whereby  we  are  coniined  to  certain  formal  prob- 
lems, whether  or  not  these  problems  have  any  relation  to  our 
conditions.  I  well  remember  what  a  great  surprise  it  was  to 
learn  that  the  sculpturing  of  the  fields  can  be  understood,  and 
that  the  reasons  for  every  bank  and  swamp  and  knoll  and 
mud-hole  can  be  worked  out. 

There  was  a  field  back  of  the  barn  that  contained  hundreds 
of  narrow  knolls,  averaging  three  to  four  feet  high.  At  one 
side  of  every  hummock  was  a  narrow  deep  pocket  that  until 
midsummer  was  filled  with  water.  The  field  was  so  rough  that 
it  could  not  be.ploughed,  and  so  it  was  continuously  used  as  a 
pasture.  It  was  an  Elysian  field  for  a  boy.  Every  pool  was  a 
world  of  life,  with  strange  creatures  and  mysterious  depths,  and 
every  knoll  was  a  point  of  vantage.  Near  one  edge  of  the  field 
ran  a  rivulet,  and  beyond  the  rivulet  were  great  woods.  What 
was  beyond  the  woods,  I  could  only  surmise.  I  recall  how 
year  by  year  I  wondered  at  this  field,  until  it  became  a  sort  of 
I)erpetual  and  compelling  mystery,  and  somehow  it  came  to  be 
woven  as  a  natural  part  of  the  fabric  of  my  life.  To  this  day 
I  try  once  each  year  to  \'isit  this  dear  old  field,  even  though  it  is 
long  since  levelled.  All  the  sweep  of  my  childhood  comes  back 
to  me  unbidden.  The  field  is  still  a  pasture,  and  generations  of 
cows  have  passed  on  since  then.  Yet,  as  much  as  this  field 
meant  to  me,  I  do  not  remember  to  have  had  any  distinct  feel- 


THE  REALM  OF   THE  COMMONPLACE  169 

ing  that  there  was  any  cause  for  the  pools  and  knolls.  My 
father  cut  the  field  from  the  forest,  yet  I  do  not  remember  that 
I  ever  asked  him  why  this  field  was  so ;  and  I  never  heard  any 
person  express  any  curiosity  about  it.  We  all  seemed  to  have 
accepted  it,  just  as  we  accept  the  air.  As  I  think  of  it  now,  this 
field  must  have  been  the  path  of  a  tornado  that  turned  over  the 
trees ;  and  long  before  the  settlers  came,  the  prostrate  trunks 
had  decayed  and  a  second  forest  had  grown.  Would  that  I 
could  have  known  that  simple  explanation !  One  sentence 
would  have  given  me  the  clew.  How  the  mystery  of  the  an- 
cient tornado  and  the  rise  of  another  forest  would  have  con- 
jured a  new  world  of  marvel  and  discovery  ! 

When  I  had  written  this  sketch  of  my  pasture  field,  I  called 
in  a  little  schoolgirl  and  read  it  to  her.  I  wanted  to  hear  her 
estimate  of  it. 

"That's  a  nice  story,"  she  said;  "but  I  don't  want  to  study 
such  things  in  school." 

"And  why  not?"  I  asked. 

"Because  they  are  hard  and  dry,"  she  said. 

Poor  child  !  She  was  thinking  of  her  books ;  and  I  remem- 
bered that  I  also  had  written  books  ! 

I  would  preach  the  sky;  for  the  sky  compels  one  to  look 
upward. 

When  in  the  open  country,  we  are  impressed  most  with  the 
sense  of  room  and  with  the  sky.  City  persons  have  no  sky,  but 
only  fragments  of  a  leaky  roof ;  for  the  city  is  one  structure 
and  needs  only  a  cover  to  make  it  a  single  building.  They  have 
no  free  horizon  line,  no  including  circle  laid  on  the  earth,  no 
welkin.  There  are  no  clouds,  —  only  an  undefined  something 
that  portends  rain  or  hides  the  sun. 

One  must  have  free  vision  if  he  is  to  know  the  sky.  He  must 
see  the  clouds  sweep  across  the  firmament,  changing  and  dis- 
solving as  they  go.  He  must  look  deep  into  the  zenith,  beyond 
the  highest  cirrus.  We  have  almost  lost  the  habit  of  looldng 
up:  — 

"Look  unto  the  heavens,  and  see  ; 
And  behold  the  skies,  which  are  higher  than  thou." 


170  INFORMAL   ESSAY 

\Al-  on  your  hack  in  some  (|uict  spot,  and  let  yourself  go  out  into 
the  enilless  distances. 

Or,  if  we  note  the  sky,  it  is  chielly  a  midday  or  sunset  recogni- 
tion. Our  literature  is  rich  in  sunsets,  but  relatively  poor  in 
sunrises.  Civilization  has  led  us  away  from  the  morning,  and 
at  the  Siime  time  it  has  led  us  away  from  youthfulness.  We 
have  telescoped  the  day  far  into  the  night,  and  morning  is  be- 
coming obsolete.  I  know  that  this  cannot  be  helped ;  but  it  can 
be  mentioned. 

I  ha\e  asked  person  after  person  whether  he  ever  saw  the  sun 
rise.  The  large  number  have  said  no ;  and  most  of  those  who 
had  seen  the  sun  rise  had  seen  it  against  their  will  and  remem- 
bered it  with  a  sense  of  weariness.  Here,  again,  our  farm  boy 
has  the  ad\'antage :  he  leads  something  like  a  natural  life.  I 
doubt  whether  a  man  can  be  a  poet  if  he  has  not  known  the 
sunrise. 

The  sky  is  the  one  part  of  the  environment  that  is  beyond  our 
reach.  We  cannot  change  it ;  we  cannot  despoil  it ;  we  cannot 
paint  signs  on  it.  The  sky  is  forever  new  and  young ;  the  seasons 
come  out  of  it ;  the  winds  blow  out  of  it ;  the  weather  is  born 
from  it :  — 

"Hast  thou  entered  the  treasuries  of  the  snow, 
Or  hast  thou  seen  the  treasuries  of  the  hail  ?" 

I  preach  the  mountains,  and  everything  that  is  taller  than 
a  man. 

Yet  it  is  to  be  feared  that  many  persons  see  too  many  moun- 
tains and  too  many  great  landscapes,  and  that  the  "seeing" 
of  nature  becomes  a  business  as  redundant  and  wearisome  as 
other  alTairs.  One  who  lives  on  the  mountains  does  not  know 
how  high  they  are.  Let  us  have  one  inspiration  that  lifts  us 
clear  of  ourselves :  this  is  better  than  to  see  so  many  mountains 
that  we  remember  only  their  names. 

The  best  objects  that  you  can  see  are  those  in  your  own  realm  ; 
but  your  own  realm  becomes  larger  and  means  more  for  the  sight 
of  something  beyond. 

It  is  worth  while  to  cherish  the  few  objects  and  phenomena 


THE  REALM  OF   THE  COMMONPLACE  171 

that  have  impressed  us  greatly,  and  it  is  well  to  recount  them 
often,  until  they  become  part  of  us.  One  such  phenomenon  is 
idealized  in  my  own  memory.  It  was  the  sight  of  sunrise  on 
Mt.  Shasta,  seen  from  the  southeastern  side  from  a  point  that 
was  then  untouched  by  travellers.  From  this  point  only  the 
main  dome  of  the  mountain  is  seen.  I  had  left  the  railway  train 
at  Upton's  and  had  ridden  on  a  flat-car  over  a  lumber  railroad 
some  eighteen  miles  to  the  southeast.  From  this  destination, 
I  drove  far  into  the  great  forest,  over  volcano  dust  that  floated 
through  the  woods  like  smoke  as  it  was  stirred  up  by  our  horses 
and  wagon  wheels.  I  was  a  guest  for  the  night  in  one  of  those 
luxurious  lodges  which  true  nature  lovers,  wishing  wholly  to 
escape  the  affairs  of  cities,  build  in  remote  and  inaccessible 
places.  The  lodge  stood  on  a  low  promontory,  around  three 
sides  of  which  a  deep  swift  mountain  stream  ran  in  wild  tumult. 
Giant  shafts  of  trees,  such  shafts  as  one  sees  only  in  the  stu- 
pendous forests  of  the  far  West,  shot  straight  into  the  sky  from 
the  very  cornices  of  the  house.  It  is  always  a  marvel  to  the 
easterner  how  shafts  of  such  extraordinary  height  could  have 
been  nourished  by  the  very  thin  and  narrow  crowns  that  they 
bear.  One  always  wonders,  also,  at  the  great  distance  the  sap- 
water  must  carry  its  freight  of  mineral  from  root  to  leaf  and  its 
heavier  freight  from  leaf  to  root. 

We  were  up  before  the  dawn.  We  made  a  pot  of  coffee,  and 
the  horses  were  ready,  —  fine  mounts,  accustomed  to  woods, 
trails,  and  hard  slopes.  It  was  hardly  light  enough  to  enable 
us  to  pick  our  way.  We  were  as  two  pygmies,  so  titanic  was 
the  forest.  The  trails  led  us  up  and  up,  under  pitchy  boughs 
becoming  fragrant,  over  needle-strewn  floors  still  heavy  with 
darkness,  disclosing  glimpses  now  and  then  of  gray  light  showing 
eastward  between  the  boles.  Suddenly  the  forest  stopped,  and 
we  found  ourselves  on  the  crest  of  a  great  ridge :  and  sheer 
before  us  stood  the  great  cone  of  Shasta,  cold  and  gray  and  silent, 
floating  on  a  sea  of  darkness  from  which  even  the  highest  tree 
crowns  did  not  emerge.  Scarcely  had  we  spoken  in  the  course 
of  our  ascent,  and  now  words  would  be  sacrilege.  Almost 
automatically  we  dismounted,  letting  the  reins  fall  over  the 


X-J2  INFORMAL   I-SSAY 

horsi^s'  necks,  and  removed  our  hats.  The  horses  stood,  and 
dropped  their  lieads.  Uncovered,  we  sat  ourselves  on  the  dry 
leaves  and  waited. 

It  was  the  morning  of  the  creation.  Out  of  the  pure  stuff 
of  nebuLe  the  cone  had  just  been  shaped  and  flung  adrift  until 
a  workl  should  be  created  on  which  it  might  rest.  The  gray 
light  grew  into  white.  Wrinkles  and  features  grew  into  the 
mountain.  Gradually  a  ruddy  light  appeared  in  the  east. 
Then  a  flash  of  red  shot  out  of  the  horizon,  struck  on  a  point  of 
the  summit,  and  caught  from  crag  to  crag  and  snow  to  snow 
until  the  great  mass  was  streaked  and  splashed  with  Are. 
Slowly  the  darkness  settled  away  from  its  base ;  a  tree  emerged ; 
a  bird  chirped ;  and  the  morning  was  born  ! 

Now  a  great  nether  world  began  to  rise  up  out  of  Chaos. 
Far  hills  rose  first  through  rolling  billows  of  mist.  Then  came 
wide  forests  of  conifer.  As  the  panorama  arose,  the  mountain 
changed  from  red  to  gold.  The  stars  had  faded  out  and  left 
the  great  mass  to  itself  on  the  bosom  of  the  rising  world,  — 
the  mountain  fully  created  now  and  stablished.  Spriggy 
bushes  and  little  leaves  —  little  green-brown  leaves  and  tender 
tufts  of  herbs  —  trembled  out  of  the  woods.  The  illimitable 
circle  of  the  world  stretched  away  and  away,  its  edges  still  hung 
in  the  stuff  from  which  it  had  just  been  fashioned.  Then  the 
forest  awoke  with  caUs  of  birds  and  the  penetrating  light,  and 
the  creation  was  complete. 

I  have  now  rc\aewed  some  of  the  elements  of  the  sympathetic 
attitude  toward  nature,  and  have  tried  to  show  how  this  outlook 
means  greater  efficiency,  hopefulness,  and  repose. 

I  have  no  mind  to  be  iconoclast,  to  try  to  tear  down  what 
has  been  built,  or  to  advise  any  man  to  change  his  occupation 
or  his  walk  in  life.  That  would  be  impossible  to  accompHsh, 
even  were  it  desirable  to  advise.  But  even  in  the  midst  of  all 
our  eagerness  and  involvedness,  it  is  stiU  possible  to  open  the 
mind  toward  nature,  and  it  will  sweeten  and  strengthen  our 
lives.  Nature  is  our  environment,  and  we  cannot  escape  it  if  we 
would.     The  problem  of  our  life  is  not  yonder :  it  is  here. 

The  seeking  of  truth  in  fresh  fields  and  for  the  love  of  it  is 


AN  APOLOGY  FOR  IDLERS 


173 


akin  to  the  enthusiasm  of  youth.  Men  keep  young  by  knowing 
nature.  They  also  keep  close  to  the  essentials.  One  of  the 
New  Sayings  of  Jesus  is  this:  ''Raise  the  stone,  and  there  thou 
shalt  find  me ;  cleave  the  wood,  and  there  am  I." 


AN  APOLOGY  FOR  IDLERS  ^ 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Just  now,  when  every  one  is  bound,  under  pain  of  a  decree 
in  absence  convicting  them  of  /e^e-respectability,  to  enter  on 
some  lucrative  profession,  and  labor  therein  with  something 
not  far  short  of  enthusiasm,  a  cry  from  the  opposite  party  who 
are  content  when  they  have  enough,  and  like  to  look  on  and  en- 
joy in  the  meanwhile,  savors  a  little  of  bravado  and  gasconade. 
And  yet  this  should  not  be.  Idleness,  so  called,  which  does  not 
consist  in  doing  nothing,  but  in  doing  a  great  deal  not  recognized 
in  the  dogmatic  formularies  of  the  ruling  class,  has  as  good 
a  right  to  state  its  position  as  industry  itself.  It  is  admitted 
that  the  presence  of  people  who  refuse  to  enter  in  the  great 
handicap  race  for  sixpenny  pieces,  is  at  once  an  insult  and  a 
disenchantment  for  those  who  do.  A  fine  fellow  (as  we  see  so 
many)  takes  his  determination,  votes  for  the  sixpences,  and  in 
the  emphatic  Americanism,  "goes  for"  them.  And  while  such 
an  one  is  ploughing  distressfully  up  the  road,  it  is  not  hard  to 
understand  his  resentment,  when  he  perceives  cool  persons 
in  the  meadows  by  the  wayside,  lying  with  a  handkerchief  over 
their  ears  and  a  glass  at  their  elbow.  Alexander  is  touched  in 
a  very  delicate  place  by  the  disregard  of  Diogenes.  Where  was 
the  glory  of  having  taken  Rome  for  these  tumultuous  barbarians 
who  poured  into  the  Senate-house  and  found  the  Fathers  sitting 
silent  and  unmoved  by  their  success?  It  is  a  sore  thing  to 
have  labored  along  and  scaled  the  arduous  hilltops,  and  when 
all  is  done,  find  humanity  indifferent  to  your  achievement. 

>  From  Virginibus  Puerisquc  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Reprinted  by 
permission. 


174  INFORMAL  /i55.4F 

HfiKt'  pliysicists  conik-nin  the  unphysical ;  financiers  have  only 
a  superficial  toleration  for  those  who  know  little  of  stocks; 
literary  persons  despise  the  unlettered ;  and  peoi)Ie  of  all  pursuits 
combine  to  disparage  those  who  have  none. 

But  thouj^h  this  is  one  difficulty  of  tiie  subject,  it  is  not  the 
greatest.  Vou  could  not  be  put  in  prison  for  speaking  against 
industry,  but  you  can  be  sent  to  Coventrj'  for  speaking  Hke  a  fool. 
The  greatest  difficulty  with  most  subjects  is  to  do  them  well ; 
therefore,  please  to  remember  this  is  an  apology.  It  is  certain 
that  much  may  be  judiciously  argued  in  favor  of  diligence; 
only  there  is  something  to  be  said  against  it,  and  that  is  what, 
on  the  present  occasion,  I  have  to  say.  To  state  one  argument 
is  not  necessarily  to  be  deaf  to  all  others,  and  that  a  man  has 
written  a  book  of  travels  on  Montenegro  is  no  reason  why  he 
should  never  have  been  to  Richmond. 

It  is  surely  beyond  a  doubt  that  people  should  be  a  good 
deal  idle  in  youth.  For  though  here  and  there  a  Lord  Macaulay 
may  escape  from  school  honors  with  all  his  wits  about  him, 
most  boys  pay  so  dear  for  their  medals  that  they  never  after- 
wards have  a  shot  in  their  locker,  and  begin  the  world  bankrupt. 
And  the  same  holds  true  during  all  the  time  a  lad  is  educating 
himself,  or  suffers  others  to  educate  him.  It  must  have  been 
a  very  foolish  old  gentleman  who  addressed  Johnson  at  Oxford 
in  these  words:  "Young  man,  ply  your  book  diligently  now, 
and  acquire  a  stock  of  knowledge;  for  when  years  come  upon 
you,  you  wall  find  that  poring  upon  books  will  be  but  an  irksome 
task."  The  old  gentleman  seems  to  have  been  unaware  that 
many  other  things  besides  reading  grow  irksome,  and  not  a  few 
become  impossible,  by  the  time  a  man  has  to  use  spectacles  and 
cannot  walk  without  a  stick.  Books  are  good  enough  in  their 
own  way,  but  they  are  a  mighty  bloodless  substitute  for  life. 
It  seems  a  pity  to  sit,  like  the  Lady  of  Shalott,  peering  into  a 
mirror,  with  your  back  turned  on  all  the  bustle  and  glamour 
of  reality.  And  ii  a  man  reads  very  hard,  as  the  old  anecdote 
reminds  us,  he  will  have  little  time  for  thought. 

If  you  look  back  on  your  own  education,  I  am  sure  it  will  not  be 
the  full,  viNad,  instructive  hours  of  truantry  that  you  regret; 


^A'  APOLOGY  FOR  IDLERS  1 75 

you  would  rather  cancel  some  lack-lustre  periods  between  sleep 
and  waking  in  the  class.  For  my  own  part,  I  have  attended  a 
good  many  lectures  in  my  time.  I  still  remember  that  the 
spinning  of  a  top  is  a  case  of  Kinetic  Stability.  I  still  remember 
that  Emphyteusis  is  not  a  disease,  nor  Stillicide  a  crime.  But 
though  I  would  not  willingly  part  with  such  scraps  of  science, 
I  do  not  set  the  same  store  by  them  as  by  certain  other  odds  and 
ends  that  I  came  by  in  the  open  street  while  I  was  playing 
truant.  This  is  not  the  moment  to  dilate  on  that  mighty  place 
of  education  which  was  the  favorite  school  of  Dickens  and  of 
Balzac,  and  turns  out  yearly  many  inglorious  masters  in  the 
Science  of  the  Aspects  of  Life.  Suffice  it  to  say  this :  if  a  lad 
does  not  learn  in  the  streets,  it  is  because  he  has  no  faculty  of 
learning.  Nor  is  the  truant  always  in  the  streets  ;  for  if  he  pre- 
fers, he  may  go  out  by  the  gardened  suburbs  into  the  country. 
He  may  pitch  on  some  tuft  of  lilacs  over  a  burn,  and  smoke  in- 
numerable pipes  to  the  tune  of  the  water  on  the  stones.  A  bird 
will  sing  in  the  thicket.  And  there  he  may  fall  into  a  vein  of 
kindly  thought,  and  see  things  in  a  new  perspective.  Why, 
if  this  be  not  education,  what  is  ?  We  may  conceive  Mr.  Worldly 
Wiseman  accosting  such  an  one,  and  the  conversation  that  should 
thereupon  ensue  :  — • 

"How  now,  young  fellow,  what  dost  thou  here?" 

"Truly,  .sir,  I  take  mine  ease." 

*'Is  not  this  the  hour  of  the  class?  and  should'st  thou  not 
be  plying  thy  Book  with  diligence,  to  the  end  thou  mayest  obtain 
knowledge?" 

"Nay,  but  thus  also  I  follow  after  Learning,  by  your  leave." 

"Learning,  quotha!  After  what  fashion,  I  pray  thee?  Is 
it  mathematics  ?  " 

"No,  to  be  sure." 

"Is  it  metaphysics?" 

"Nor  that." 

"Is  it  some  language?" 

"Nay,  it  is  no  language." 

"Isit  a  trade?" 

■'Nor  a  trade,  neither." 


176  INFORMAL   E^SAY 

"Why,  then,  what  is't?" 

''Indeed,  sir,  as  a  time  may  soon  come  for  me  to  go  upon 
Pilgrimage,  I  am  desirous  to  note  what  is  commonly  done  by 
persons  in  my  case,  and  where  are  the  ugliest  Sloughs  and 
Thickets  on  the  Road ;  as  also,  what  manner  of  Stall  is  of  the 
best  ser\ice.  Moreover,  I  lie  here,  by  this  water,  to  learn  by 
root-of-heart  a  lesson  which  my  master  teaches  me  to  call  Peace, 
or  Contentment." 

Hereupon  Mr.  Worldly  Wiseman  wa?  much  commoved 
\\-ith  passion,  and  shaking  his  cane  with  a  very  threatful  coun- 
tenance, broke  forth  upon  this  wise :  "Learning,  quotha  ! "  said 
he ;  "I  would  have  all  such  rogues  scourged  by  the  Hangman  ! " 

And  so  he  would  go  his  way,  ruffling  out  his  cravat  with 
a  crackle  of  starch,  like  a  turkey  when  it  spreads  its  feathers. 

Now  this,  of  Mr.  Wiseman's,  is  the  corrunon  opinion.  A  fact 
is  not  called  a  fact,  but  a  piece  of  gossip,  if  it  does  not  fall  into 
one  of  your  scholastic  categories.  An  inquiry  must  be  in  some 
acknowledged  direction,  with  a  name  to  go  by ;  or  else  you  are 
not  inquiring  at  all,  only  lounging ;  and  the  workhouse  is"  too 
good  for  you.  It  is  supposed  that  all  knowledge  is  at  the  bottom 
of  a  well,  or  the  far  end  of  a  telescope. 

Sainte-Beuve,  as  he  grew  older,  came  to  regard  all  experience 
as  a  single  great  book,  in  which  to  study  for  a  few  years  ere 
we  go  hence ;  and  it  seemed  all  one  to  him  whether  you  should 
read  in  Chapter  xx,  which  is  the  differential  calculus,  or  in 
Chapter  xxxLx,  which  is  hearing  the  band  play  in  the  gardens. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  an  intelligent  person,  looking  out  of  his  eyes 
and  hearkening  in  his  ears,  with  a  smile  on  his  face  all  the  time, 
will  get  more  true  education  than  many  another  in  a  hfe  of 
heroic  \igils.  There  is  certainly  some  chill  and  arid  knowledge 
to  be  found  upon  the  summits  of  formal  and  laborious  science ; 
but  it  is  all  round  about  you,  and  for  the  trouble  of  looking, 
that  you  will  acquire  the  warm  and  palpitating  facts  of  life. 
While  others  are  filling  their  memory  with  a  lumber  of  words, 
one-half  of  which  they  will  forget  before  the  week  be  out,  your 
truant  may  learn  some  really  useful  art :  to  play  the  fiddle, 
to  know  a  good  cigar,  or  to  speak  with  ease  and  opportunity 


AN  APOLOGY  FOR   IDLERS  1 77 

to  all  varieties  of  men.  Many  who  have  "plied  their  book 
diligently,"  and  know  all  about  some  one  branch  or  another  of 
accepted  lore,  come  out  of  the  study  with  an  ancient  and  owl- 
like demeanor,  and  prove  dry,  stockish,  and  dyspeptic  in  all 
the  better  and  brighter  parts  of  life.  Many  make  a  large  for- 
tune, who  remain  underbred  and  pathetically  stupid  to  the  last. 
And  meantime  there  goes  the  idler,  who  began  life  along  with 
them  —  by  your  leave,  a  different  picture.  He  has  had  time  to 
take  care  of  his  health  and  his  spirits ;  he  has  been  a  great  deal 
in  the  open  air,  which  is  the  most  salutary  of  all  things  for  both 
body  and  mind ;  and  if  he  has  never  read  the  great  Book  in  very 
recondite  places,  he  has  dipped  into  it  and  skimmed  it  over  to 
excellent  purpose.  Might  not  the  student  afford  some  Hebrew 
roots,  and  the  business  man  some  of  his  half-crowns,  for  a  share 
of  the  idler's  knowledge  of  life  at  large,  and  Art  of  Living? 
Nay,  and  the  idler  has  another  and  more  important  quality 
than  these.  I  mean  his  wisdom.  He  who  has  much  looked  on 
at  the  childish  satisfaction  of  other  people  in  their  hobbies, 
will  regard  his  own  with  only  a  very  ironical  indulgence.  He 
will  not  be  heard  among  the  dogmatists.  He  will  have  a  great 
and  cool  allowance  for  all  sorts  of  people  and  opinions.  If 
he  finds  no  out-of-the-way  truths,  he  will  identify  himself  with 
no  very  burning  falsehood.  His  way  takes  him  along  a  by-road, 
not  much  frequented,  but  very  even  and  pleasant,  which  is 
called  Commonplace  Lane,  and  leads  to  the  Belvedere  of  Com- 
mon Sense.  Thence  he  shall  command  an  agreeable,  if  no 
very  noble  prospect ;  and  while  others  behold  the  East  and  West, 
the  Devil  and  the  Sunrise,  he  will  be  contentedly  aware  of  a  sort 
of  morning  hour  upon  all  sublunary  things,  with  an  army  of 
shadows  running  speedily  and  in  many  different  directions  into  the 
great  daylight  of  Eternity.  The  shadows  and  the  generations, 
the  shrill  doctors  and  the  plangent  wars,  go  by  into  ultimate 
silence  and  emptiness ;  but  underneath  all  this,  a  man  may  see, 
out  of  the  Belvedere  windows,  much  green  and  peaceful  landscape  ; 
many  firelit  parlors ;  good  people  laughing,  drinking,  and  making 
love  as  they  did  before  the  Flood  or  the  French  Revolution ; 
and  the  old  shepherd  telHng  his  tale  under  the  hawthorn. 


178  INFORMAL    ESSAV 

Kxtrcmr  hu.sinrss,  whctluT  at  school  or  college,  kirk  or  market, 
is  a  symptom  of  deficient  vitality ;  and  faculty  for  idleness  im- 
plies a  catholic  appetite  and  a  strong  sense  of  i)ersonal  identity. 
There  is  a  sort  of  dead-alive,  hackneyed  people  about,  who  are 
scarcely  conscious  of  living  except  in  the  exercise  of  some  con- 
ventional occupation.  Bring  these  fellows  into  the  country, 
or  set  them  aboard  ship,  and  you  will  see  how  they  pine  for 
their  desk  or  their  study.  They  have  no  curiosity ;  they  cannot 
give  themselves  over  to  random  provocations ;  they  do  not  take 
pleasure  in  the  exercise  of  their  faculties  for  its  own  sake;  and 
unless  Necessity  lays  about  them  with  a  stick,  they  will  even  stanrl 
still.  It  is  no  good  speaking  to  such  folk:  they  cannot  be  idle, 
their  nature  is  not  generous  enough ;  and  they  pass  those  hours 
in  a  sort  of  coma,  which  are  not  dedicated  to  furious  moiling 
in  the  gold-mill.  When  they  do  not  require  to  go  to  the  office, 
when  they  are  not  hungry,  and  have  no  mind  to  drink,  the  whole 
breathing  world  is  a  blank  to  them.  If  they  have  to  wait  an 
hour  or  so  for  a  train,  they  fall  into  a  stupid  trance  with  their 
eyes  open.  To  see  them,  you  would  suppose  there  was  nothing 
to  look  at  and  no  one  to  speak  with ;  you  would  imagine  they  were 
paralyzed  or  alienated ;  and  yet  very  possibly  they  are  hard 
workers  in  their  own  way,  and  have  good  eyesight  for  a  flaw  in 
a  deed  or  a  turn  of  the  market.  They  have  been  to  school  and 
college,  but  all  the  time  they  had  their  eye  on  the  medal ;  they 
have  gone  about  in  the  world  and  mixed  with  clever  people, 
but  all  the  time  they  were  thinking  of  their  own  affairs.  As  if 
a  man's  soul  were  not  too  small  to  begin  with,  they  have  dwarfed 
and  narrowed  theirs  by  a  life  of  all  work  and  no  play ;  until  here 
they  are  at  forty,  with  a  listless  attention,  a  mind  vacant  of 
all  material  of  amusement,  and  not  one  thought  to  rub  against 
another,  while  they  wait  for  the  train.  Before  he  was  breeched 
he  might  have  clambered  on  the  boxes ;  when  he  was  twenty, 
he  would  have  stared  at  the  girls ;  but  now  the  pipe  is  smoked 
out,  the  snuff-box  empty,  and  my  gentleman  sits  bolt  upright 
upon  a  bench,  with  lamentable  eyes.  This  does  not  appeal  to 
me  as  being  Success  in  Life. 

But  it  is  not  only  the  person  himself  who  suffers  from  his 


AN  APOLOGY  FOR  IDLERS  1 79 

busy  habits,  but  his  wife  and  children,  his  friends  and  relations, 
and  down  to  the  very  people  he  sits  with  in  a  railway  carriage 
or  an  omnibus.  Perpetual  devotion  to  what  a  man  calls  his 
business  is  only  to  be  sustained  by  perpetual  neglect  of  many 
other  things.  And  it  is  not  by  any  means  certain  that  a  man's 
business  is  the  most  important  thing  he  has  to  do'.  To  an 
impartial  estimate  it  will  seem  clear  that  many  of  the  wisest, 
most  virtuous,  and  most  beneficent  parts  that  are  to  be  played 
upon  the  Theatre  of  Life  are  filled  by  gratuitous  performers, 
and  pass,  among  the  world  at  large,  as  phases  of  idleness.  For 
in  that  Theatre,  not  only  the  walking  gentlemen,  singing  cham- 
bermaids, and  diligent  fiddlers  in  the  orchestra,  but  those  who 
look  on  and  clap  their  hands  from  the  benches,  do  really  play 
a  part  and  fulfil  important  offices  towards  the  general  result. 
You  are  no  doubt  very  dependent  on  the  care  of  your  lawyer 
and  stockbroker,  of  the  guards  and  signalmen  who  convey  you 
rapidly  from  place  to  place,  and  the  policemen  who  walk  the 
streets  for  your  protection ;  but  is  there  not  a  thought  of  grati- 
tude in  your  heart  for  certain  other  benefactors  who  set  you 
smiling  when  they  fall  in  your  way,  or  season  your  dinner  with 
good  company?  Colonel  Newcome  helped  to  lose  his  friend's 
money;  Fred  Bayham  had  an  ugly  trick  of  borrowing  shirts; 
and  yet  they  were  better  people  to  fall  among  than  Mr.  Barnes. 
And  though  Falstaff  was  neither  sober  nor  very  honest,  I  think 
I  could  name  one  or  two  long-faced  Barabbases  whom  the  world 
could  better  have  done  without.  Hazlitt  mentions  that  he 
was  more  sensible  of  obligation  to  Northcote,  who  had  never 
done  him  anything  he  could  call  a  service,  than  to  his  whole 
circle  of  ostentatious  friends ;  for  he  thought  a  good  companion 
emphatically  the  greatest  benefactor.  I  know  there  are  people 
in  the  world  who  cannot  feel  grateful  unless  the  favor  has  been 
done  them  at  the  cost  of  pain  and  difficulty.  But  this  is  a 
churlish  disposition.  A  man  may  send  you  six  sheets  of  letter- 
paper  covered  with  the  most  entertaining  gossip,  or  you  may 
pass  half  an  hour  pleasantly,  perhaps  profitably,  over  an  article 
of  his.  Do  you  think  the  service  would  l)e  greater,  if  he  had 
made  the  manuscript  in  his  heart's  blood,  like  a  compact  with 


l8o  IM'OK.\fAL   KSSAV 

the  (ie\il  ?  Do  you  really  fancy  you  should  Ik-  mort-  beholden  to 
your  correspondent,  if  he  had  been  damning  you  all  the  while 
for  your  importunity  ?  Pleasures  arc  more  beneficial  than 
duties,  because,  like  the  quality  of  mercy,  they  are  not  strained, 
and  they  arc  twice  blest.  There  must  always  be  two  to  a  kiss, 
and  there  may  be  a  score  in  a  jest ;  but  wherever  there  is  an 
element  of  sacrifice,  the  favor  is  conferred  with  pain,  and,  among 
generous  ]ieople,  recei\ed  with  confusion.  There  is  no  duty  we 
so  much  underrate  as  the  duty  of  being  hai)py.  By  being  happy, 
we  sow  anonymous  benefits  upon  the  world,  which  remain 
unknown  even  to  ourselves,  or,  when  they  are  disclosed,  sur- 
prise nobody  so  much  as  the  benefactor.  The  other  day,  a 
ragged,  barefoot  boy  ran  down  the  street  after  a  marble,  with 
so  jolly  an  air  that  he  set  everyone  he  passed  into  a  good  humor ; 
one  of  these  persons,  who  had  been  delivered  from  more  than 
usually  black  thoughts,  stopped  the  little  fellow  and  gave  him 
some  money  with  this  remark:  "You  see  what  sometimes 
comes  of  looking  pleased."  If  he  had  looked  pleased  before, 
he  had  now  to  look  both  pleased  and  mystified.  For  my  part, 
I  justify  this  encouragement  of  smiling  rather  than  tearful 
children;  I  do  not  want  to  pay  for  tears  anywhere  but  upon 
the  stage;  but  I  am  prepared  to  deal  largely  in  the  opposite 
commodity.  A  happy  man  or  woman  is  a  better  thing  to  find 
than  a  five-pound  note.  He  or  she  is  a  radiating  focus  of  good- 
will ;  and  their  entrance  into  a  room  is  as  though  another 
candle  had  been  lighted.  We  need  not  care  whether  they  could 
prove  the  forty-seventh  proposition ;  they  do  a  better  thing 
than  that,  they  practically  demonstrate  the  great  Theorem 
of  the  Li\'cableness  of  Life.  Consequently,  if  a  person  cannot 
be  happy  without  remaining  idle,  idle  he  should  remain.  It  is 
a  revolutionary  precei)t ;  but,  thanks  to  hunger  and  the  work- 
house, one  not  easily  to  be  abused ;  and,  within  practical  limits, 
it  is  one  of  the  most  incontestable  truths  in  the  whole  Body  of 
Morality.  Look  at  one  of  your  industrious  fellows  for  a  moment, 
I  beseech  you.  He  sows  hurry  and  reaps  indigestion ;  he  puts 
a  vast  deal  of  activity  out  to  interest,  and  receives  a  large 
measure  of  nervous  derangement  in  retvirn.     Either  he  absents 


^.V   APOLOGY  FOR  IDLERS  l8l 

himself  entirely  from  all  fellowship,  and  lives  a  recluse  in  a  garret, 
with  carpet  slippers  and  a  leaden  inkpot ;  or  he  comes  among 
people  swiftly  and  bitterly,  in  a  contraction  of  his  whole  nervous 
system,  to  discharge  some  temper  before  he  returns  to  work. 
I  do  not  care  how  much  or  how  well  he  works,  this  fellow  is  an 
evil  feature  in  other  people's  lives.  They  would  be  happier  if 
he  were  dead.  They  would  easier  do  without  his  services  in  the 
Circumlocution  Ofifice,  than  they  can  tolerate  his  fractious  spirits. 
He  poisons  life  at  the  well-head.  It  is  better  to  be  beggared 
out  of  hand  by  a  scapegrace  nephew,  than  daily  hag-ridden  by 
a  peevish  uncle. 

And  what,  in  God's  name,  is  all  this  pother  about  ?  For  what 
cause  do  they  embitter  their  own  and  other  people's  lives? 
That  a  man  should  publish  three  or  thirty  articles  a  year,  that 
he  should  finish  or  not  finish  his  great  allegorical  picture,  are 
questions  of  little  interest  to  the  world.  The  ranks  of  life  are 
full ;  and  although  a  thousand  fall,  there  are  always  some  to 
go  into  the  breach.  When  they  told  Joan  of  Arc  she  should  be 
at  home  minding  women's  work,  she  answered  there  were  plenty 
to  spin  and  wash.  And  so,  even  with  your  own  rare  gifts  ! 
When  nature  is  "so  careless  of  the  single  life,"  why  should  we 
coddle  ourselves  into  the  fancy  that  our  own  is  of  exceptional 
importance?  Suppose  Shakespeare  had  been  knocked  on  the 
head  some  dark  night  in  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  preserves,  the  world 
would  have  wagged  no  better  or  worse,  the  pitcher  gone  to  the 
well,  the  scythe  to  the  corn,  and  the  student  to  his  book ;  and 
no  one  been  any  the  wiser  of  the  loss.  There  are  not  many 
works  extant,  if  you  look  the  alternative  all  over,  which  are 
worth  the  price  of  a  pound  of  tobacco  to  a  man  of  limited  means. 
This  is  a  sobering  reflection  for  the  proudest  of  our  earthly 
vanities.  Even  a  tobacconist  may,  upon  consideration,  find  no 
great  cause  for  personal  vainglory  in  the  phrase ;  for  although 
tobacco  is  an  admirable  sedative,  the  qualities  necessary  for 
retailing  it  are  neither  rare  nor  precious  in  themselves.  Alas 
and  alas  !  you  may  take  it  how  you  will,  but  the  services  of  no 
single  individual  are  indispensable.  Atlas  was  just  a  gentleman 
with  a  protracted  nightmare  !     And  yet  you  see  merchants  who 


1 82  INFORMAL   ESSAY 

go  and  labor  themselves  into  a  <;rcat  fortune  and  thence  into 
the  bankruptcy  court ;  scribblers  who  keep  scribbling  at  little 
articles  until  their  temper  is  a  cross  to  all  who  come  about  them, 
as  though  Pharaoh  should  set  the  Israelites  to  make  a  pin  instead 
of  a  pyramid  ;  and  line  young  men  who  work  themselves  into 
a  decline,  and  are  driven  olT  in  a  hearse  with  white  ])lumes  ui)on 
it.  Would  you  not  suppose  these  persons  had  been  whispered, 
by  the  Master  of  the  Ceremonies,  the  promise  of  some  momen- 
tous destiny  ?  and  that  this  lukewarm  bullet  on  which  they 
play  their  farces  was  the  bull's-eye  and  centre-point  of  all  the 
universe  ?  And  yet  it  is  not  so.  The  ends  for  which  they  gi\'e 
away  their  priceless  youth,  for  all  they  know,  may  be  chimerical 
or  hurtful ;  the  glory  and  riches  they  expect  may  never  come, 
or  may  find  them  indifferent ;  and  they  and  the  world  they  in- 
habit are  so  inconsiderable  that  the  mind  freezes  at  the  thought. 


OX  THE   FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN 
YOUTH  1 

William  Hazlitt 

No  young  man  believes  he  shall  ever  die.  It  was  a  saying 
of  my  brother's  and  a  fine  one.  There  is  a  feeling  of  Eternity 
in  youth  which  makes  us  amends  for  everything.  To  be  young 
is  to  be  as  one  of  the  Immortals.  One  half  of  time  indeed  is 
spent  —  the  other  half  remains  in  store  for  us,  with  all  its  count- 
less   treasures,  for    there   is   no   line   drawn,  and    we   see   no 


No  young  man  believes  he  shall  ever  die.  It  was  a  saying  of  my 
brother's,  and  a  fine  one.  There  is  a  feeling  of  Eternity  in  youth, 
which  makes  us  amends  for  everything.  To  be  young  is  to  be  as  one 
of  the  Immortal  Gods.  One  half  of  time  indeed  is  flown  —  the  other 
half  remains  in  store  for  us  with  all  its  countless  treasures ;  for  there 

>  From  Sketches  and  Essays,  ed.  W.  C.  Hazlitt.     The  Bohn  Library. 
The  reasons  for  printing  two  texts  of  this  essay  are  given  in  the  Notes. 


ON   THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN   YOUTH      183 

limit  to  our  hopes  and  wishes.  We  make  the  coming  age  our 
own  — 

"The  vast,  the  unbounded  prospect  hes  before  us." 

Death,  old  age,  are  words  without  a  meaning,  a  dream,  a  fiction, 
with  which  we  have  nothing  to  do.  Others  may  have  undergone, 
or  may  still  undergo  them  —  we  "bear  a  charmed  life,"  which 
laughs  to  scorn  all  such  idle  fancies.  As,  in  setting  out  on  a 
delightful  journey,  we  strain  our  eager  sight  forward, 

"Bidding  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail," 

and  see  no  end  to  prospect  after  prospect,  new  objects  presenting 
themselves  as  we  advance,  so  in  the  outset  of  life  we  see  no  end  to 
our  desires  nor  to  the  opportunities  of  gratifying  them.  We  have 
as  yet  found  no  obstacle,  no  disposition  to  flag,  and  it  seems  that 
we  can  go  on  so  for  ever.  We  look  round  in  a  new  world,  full  of 
life  and  motion,  and  ceaseless  progress,  and  feel  in  ourselves  all 
the  vigor  and  spirit  to  keep  pace  with  it,  and  do  not  foresee  from 


is  no  line  drawn,  and  we  see  no  limit  to  our  hopes  and  wishes.  We 
make  the  coming  age  our  own. 

"The  vast,  the  unbounded  prospect  lies  before  us." 

Death,  old  age,  are  words  without  a  meaning,  that  pass  by  us  like 
the  idle  air  which  we  regard  not.  Others  may  have  undergone,  or  may 
still  be  liable  to  them  —  we  "bear  a  charmed  life,"  which  laughs  to 
scorn  all  such  sickly  fancies.  As,  in  setting  out  on  a  delightful  journey, 
we  strain  our  eager  gaze  forward  — • 

"  Bidding  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  hail,"  — 

and  see  no  end  to  the  landscape,  new  objects  presenting  themselves 
as  we  advance ;  so,  in  the  commencement  of  life,  we  set  no  bounds  to 
our  inclinations, nor  to  the  unrestricted  opporttmities oi gratiiyingthem. 
We  have  as  yet  found  no  obstacle,  no  disposition  to  flag;  and  it 
seems  that  we  can  go  on  so  for  ever.  We  look  round  in  a  new  world, 
full  of  life  and  motion,  and  ceaseless  progress,  and  feel  in  ourselves 
all  the  vigor  and  spirit  to  keep  pace  with  it,  and  do  not  foresee  from 


lS4  IS' FORMAL    ESSAY 

any  present  signs  how  wt-  shall  ho  left  behind  in  the  race,  decline 
into  olil  aj^e,  and  drop  into  the  grave.  It  is  the  simplicity  and, 
as  it  were,  abstractedness  of  our  feelings  in  youth  that  (so  to 
speak)  identifies  us  with  nature  and  (our  experience  being  weak 
and  our  passions  strong)  makes  lis  fancy  ourselves  immortal  like 
it.  Our  short-lived  connection  with  being,  we  fondly  flatter 
ourselves,  is  an  indissoluble  and  lasting  union.  vVs  infants 
smile  and  sleep,  we  are  rocked  in  the  cradle  of  our  desires,  and 
hushed  into  fancied  security  by  the  roar  of  the  universe  around  us 
—  we  ciuafT  the  cup  of  life  with  eager  thirst  without  draining  it, 
and  joy  and  hope  seem  ever  mantling  to  the  brim  —  objects  press 
around  us,  filling  the  mind  with  their  magnitude  and  with  the 
throng  of  desires  that  wait  upon  them,  so  that  there  is  no  room 
for  the  thoughts  of  death.  We  are  too  much  dazzled  by  the 
gorgcousncss  and  novelty  of  the  bright  waking  dream  about  us  to 
discern  the  dim  shadoio  lingering/or  us  in  the  distance.     Nor  would 

any  present  symptoms  how  we  shall  be  left  behind  in  the  natural 
course  of  things,  decline  into  old  age,  and  drop  into  the  grave.  It  is 
the  simplicity,  and  as  it  were  abstractedness  of  our  feelings  in  youth, 
that  (so  to  speak)  identifies  us  with  nature,  and  (our  experience  being 
slight  and  our  passions  strong)  deludes  us  into  a  belief  of  being  immortal 
like  it.  Our  short-lived  connection  with  existence,  wc  fondly  flatter 
ourselves,  is  an'  indissoluble  and  lasting  union  —  [a  honey-moon  that 
knows  neither  coldness,  jar,  nor  separation.]  As  infants  smile  and 
sleep,  we  are  rocked  in  the  cradle  of  our  wayward  fancies ,  and  hdled  into 
security  by  the  roar  of  the  universe  around  us  —  we  quaff  the  cup  of 
life  with  eager  haste  without  draining  it,  instead  of  which  it  only  over- 
flows the  tnore  —  objects  press  around  us,  filling  the  mind  with  their 
magnitude  and  with  the  throng  of  desires  that  wait  upon  them,  so 
that  we  have  no  room  for  the  thoughts  of  death.  [From  that  plenitude 
of  our  being,  we  cannot  change  all  at  once  to  dust  and  ashes,  we  can- 
not imagine  "this  sensible,  warm  motion,  to  become  a  kneaded  clod"] 
—  we  are  too  much  dazzled  by  the  brightness  of  the  waking  dream 
arouiul  us  to  look  into  the  darkness  of  the  tomb.  [We  no  more  see  our 
end  than  our  beginning :  the  one  is  lost  in  oblivion  and  vacancy,  as 
the  other  is  hid  from  us  by  the  crowd  and  hurry  of  approaching  events. 
Or  the  grim  shadow  is  seen  lingering  in  the  horizon,  which  we  are 
doomed  never  to  overtake,  or  whose  last,  faint,  glimmering  outline 


i 


ON   THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN   YOUTH      185 

the  hold  that  life  has  taken  of  us  permit  us  to  detach  our  thoughts 
that  way,  even  if  we  could.  We  are  too  much  absorbed  in  present 
objects  and  pursuits.  While  the  spirit  of  youth  remains  un- 
impaired, ere  "the  wine  of  life  is  drunk,"  we  are  like  people 
intoxicated  or  in  a  fever,  who  are  hurried  away  by  the  violence 
of  their  own  sensations :  it  is  only  as  present  objects  begin  to  pall 
upon  the  sense,  as  we  have  been  disappointed  in  our  favorite 
pursuits,  cut  off  from  our  closest  ties,  that  we  by  degrees  become 
weaned  from  the  world,  that  passion  loosens  its  hold  upon 
futurity,  and  that  we  begin  to  contemplate  as  in  a  glass  darkly 
the  possibility  of  parting  with  it  for  good.  Till  then,  the  example 
of  others  has  no  effect  upon  us.  Casualties  we  avoid;  the  slow 
approaches  of  age  we  play  at  hide-and-seek  with.  Like  the  foolish 
fat  scullion  in  Sterne,  who  hears  that  Master  Bobby  is  dead,  our 
only  reflection  is,  "So  am  not  I !"     The  idea  of  death,  instead 

touches  upon  Heaven  and  translates  us  to  the  skies  !]  Nor  would 
the  hold  that  life  has  taken  of  us  permit  us  to  detach  our  thoughts 
from  present  objects  and  pursuits,  even  if  we  would.  [What  is  there 
more  opposed  to  health,  than  sickness ;  to  strength  and  beauty, 
than  decay  and  dissolution ;  to  the  active  search  of  knowledge,  than 
mere  oblivion  ?  Or  is  there  none  of  the  usual  advantage  to  bar  the 
approach  of  Death,  and  mock  his  idle  threats ;  Hope  supplies  their 
place,  and  draws  a  veil  over  the  abrupt  termination  of  all  our  cherished 
schemes.]  While  the  spirit  of  youth  remains  unimpaired,  ere  the 
"wine  of  life  is  drank  iip,"  we  are  like  people  intoxicated  or  in  a  fever, 
who  are  hurried  away  by  the  violence  of  their  own  sensations :  it  is 
only  as  present  objects  begin  to  pall  upon  the  sense,  as  we  have  been 
disappointed  in  our  favorite  pursuits,  cut  off  from  our  closest  tics, 
that  passion  loosens  its  hold  upon  the  breast,  that  we  by  degrees  become 
weaned  from  the  world,  and  allow  ourselves  to  contemplate,  "as  in  a 
glass,  darkly,"  the  possibility  of  parting  with  it  for  good.  The 
example  of  others,  the  voice  of  experience,  has  no  effect  upon  us  what- 
ever. Casualties  we  must  avoid:  the  slow  and  deliberate  advances  of 
age  we  can  play  at  hide-and-seek  with.  [We  think  ourselves  too  lusty 
and  too  nimble  for  that  blear-eyed  decrepit  old  gentleman  to  catch 
us.]  Like  the  foolish  fat  scullion  in  Sterne,  when  she  hears  that  Master 
Bobby  is  dead,  our  only  reflection  is  —  "So  am  not  I !"  The  idea 
of  death,  instead  of  staggering  our  confidence,  rather  seems  to  strengthen 


l86  IMVRMAL   fiSSAY 

ol  staggorinp  our  conridcncc,  only  seems  to  strengthen  and  en- 
hance our  .'icnsc  of  the  possession  and  enjoyment  ol  Hfe.  Others 
may  fall  around  us  like  leaves,  or  be  mowed  down  by  the  scythe 
oi  Time  like  grass:  these  are  but  metaphors  to  the  unreflecting, 
buoyant  ears  and  oversveening  presumption  of  youth.  It  is  not 
till  we  see  the  flowers  of  Love,  Hope,  and  Joy  withering  around 
us,  that  we  give  up  the  flattering  delusions  that  be/ore  led  us  on, 
and  that  the  emptiness  and  dreariness  of  the  prospect  before 
us  reconciles  us  hy pathetically  to  the  silence  of  the  grave. 

Life  is  indeed  a  strange  gift,  and  its  privileges  are  most 
mysterious.  No  -wonder  when  it  is  first  granted  to  us,  that  our 
gratitude,  our  admiration  and  our  delight  should  prevent  us 
from  reflecting  on  our  own  nothingness,  or  from  thinking  it 
will  ever  be  recalled.  Our  first  and  strongest  impressions  are 
borrowed  from  the  mighty  scene  that  is  opened  to  us,  and  we 
unconsciously  transfer  its  durability  as  well  as  its  splendor  to 

and  enhance  our  possession  and  our  enjoyment  of  life.  Others  may 
fall  around  us  like  leaves,  or  be  mowed  down  like  flowers  b)'  the  scythe 
of  Time :  these  are  but  tropes  and  figures,  to  the  unreflecting  ears 
and  overweening  presumption  of  youth.  It  is  not  till  we  see  the 
flowers  of  Love.  Hope,  and  Joy  withering  around  us,  [and  our  own 
pleasures  cut  up  by  the  roots,]  that  we  bring  the  moral  home  to  ourselves, 
that  "ur  abate  something  of  the  wanton  extravagance  of  our  pretensions,  or 
that  the  emptiness  and  dreariness  of  the  prospect  before  us  reconciles 
us  to  the  stillness  of  the  grave  ! 

["Life  !  thou  strange  thing,  that  hast  a  power  to  feel 
Thou  art,  and  to  perceive  that  others  are." 

Well  might  the  poet  begin  his  indignant  invective  against  an  art, 
whose  professed  object  is  its  destruction,  with  this  animated  apos- 
trophe to  life.]  Life  is  indeed  a  strange  gift,  and  its  privileges  are 
most  miraculous.  Nor  is  it  singular  that  when  the  splendid  boon  is 
first  granted  us,  our  gratitude,  our  admiration,  and  our  delight  should 
prevent  us  from  reflecting  on  our  own  nothingness,  or  from  thinking 
it  will  ever  be  recalled.  Our  first  and  strongest  impressions  are 
taken  from  the  mighty  scene  that  is  opened  to  us,  and  we  very  inno- 
cently transfer  its  durability  as  well  as  magnificence  to  ourselves.     So 


ON   THE  FEELING   OF  IMMORTALITY  IN    YOUTH      187 

ourselves.  So  newly  found,  we  cannot  think  of  parting  with  it 
yet,  or  at  least  put  off  that  consideration  sine  die.  Like  a  rustic 
at  a  fair,  we  are  full  of  amazement  and  rapture,  and  have  no 
thought  of  going  home,  or  that  it  will  soon  be  night.  We  know 
our  existence  only  by  ourselves^  and  confound  our  knowledge  with 
the  objects  oj  it.  We  and  Nature  are  therefore  one.  Otherwise 
the  illusion,  the  "feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul,"  to  which 
we  are  invited,  is  a  mockery  and  a  cruel  insult.  We  do  not  go 
from  a  play  till  the  last  act  is  ended,  and  the  lights  are  about  to 
be  extinguished.  But  the  fairy  face  of  Nature  still  shines  on : 
shall  we  be  called  away  before  the  curtain  falls,  or  ere  we  have 
scarce  had  a  glimpse  of  what  is  going  on?  Like  children,  our 
stepmother  Nature  holds  us  up  to  see  the  raree-show  of  the 
universe,  and  then,  as  if  ive  were  a  burden  to  her  to  support,  lets 
us  fall  down  again.  Yet  what  brave  sublunary  things  does  not 
this  pageant  present,  like  a  ball  or  fete  of  the  universe  I 

To  see  the  golden  sun,  the  azure  sky,  the  outstretched  ocean ; 
to  walk  upon  the  green  earth,  and  be  lord  of  a  thousand  crea- 

newly  found,  we  cannot  make  up  our  minds  to  parting  with  it  yet,  and 
at  least  put  off  that  consideration  to  an  indefinite  term.  Like  a  clown 
at  a  fair,  we  are  full  of  amazement  and  rapture,  and  have  no  thoughts 
of  going  home,  or  that  it  will  soon  be  night.  We  know  our  existence 
only  for  external  objects,  and  we  measure  it  by  them.  We  can  never  be 
satisfied  with  gazing;  and  nature  will  still  want  us  to  look  on  and  applaud. 
Otherwise,  the  sumptuous  entertainment,  "the  feast  of  reason  and  the 
flow  of  soul,"  to  which  they  were  invited,  seems  little  better  than  a 
mockery  and  a  cruel  insult.  We  do  not  go  from  a  play  till  the  scene 
is  ended  and  the  lights  are  ready  to  be  extinguished.  But  the  fair 
face  of  things  still  shines  on ;  shall  we  be  called  away  before  the  cur- 
tain falls,  or  ere  we  have  scarce  had  a  glimpse  of  what  is  going  on  ? 
Like  children,  our  stepmother  Nature  holds  us  up  to  see  the  raree- 
show  of  the  universe ;  and  then,  as  if  life  were  a  burthen  to  support, 
lets  us  instantly  down  again.  Yet  in  tliat  short  interval,  what  "brave 
sublunary  things"  does  not  the  spectacle  unfold;  lUze  a  bubble,  at  one 
minute  reflecting  the  universe,  and  the  next,  shook  to  air!  —  To  see  the 
golden  sun  and  the  azure  sky,  the  outstretched  ocean,  to  walk  upon 
the  green  earth,  and  to  be  lord  of  a  thousand  creatures,  to  look  down 
giddy  precipices  or  over  distant  flowery  vales,  to  see  the  world  spread 


iSS  IXrOKMAL    i:SSAV 

luro ;  lo  look  clown  ya'wninf^  precipices  or  over  distant  sunny 
vales;  to  see  the  world  spread  out  under  one's /cc/  on  a  ma|); 
to  bring  the  stars  near ;  to  \-iew  the  smallest  insects  lliruni^h  a 
microscope ;  to  read  history,  and  consider  the  revolutions  of 
empire  and  the  successions  of  generations ;  to  hear  of  the  glor}- 
of  Tyre,  of  Sidon,  of  Babylon,  and  of  Susa,  and  to  say  air  these 
were  before  me  and  are  now  nothing ;  to  say  I  exist  in  such  a 
IxMnt  of  time,  and  in  such  a  point  of  space ;  to  be  a  spectator  and 
a  part  of  its  ever-moving  scene ;  to  witness  the  change  of  season, 
of  spring  and  autumn,  of  winter  and  summer  ;  to  feel  Iwt  and  cold, 
pleasure  and  pain,  [beauty  and  deformity,]  right  and  wrong ; 
[to  be  sensible  to  the  accidents  of  nature ;  to  consider  the  mighty 
world  of  eye  and  ear ;]  lo  listen  to  tJie  stock-dove's  notes  amid  the 
forest  deep;  to  journey  over  tnoor  and  mountain;  to  hear  the 
midnight  sainted  choir;  to  \-isit  lighted  halls,  or  the  cathedraVs 
gloom,  or  sit  in  crowded  theatres  and  see  life  itself  mocked ;  to 
study  the  works  of  art  and  refine  the  sense  of  beauty  to  agony ; 
to  worship  fame,  and  to  dream  of  immortality ;  [to  look  upon 
the  Vatican,]  and  to  read  Shakespeare ;  [to  gather  up  the  wisdom 
of  the  ancients,  and  to  pry  into  the  future ;  to  listen  to  the  trump 

out  under  one's  finger  in  a  map,  to  bring  the  stars  near,  to  view  the 
smallest  insects  in  a  microscope,  to  read  history,  and  witness  the  revo- 
lutions of  empires  and  the  succession  of  generations,  to  hear  of  the 
glory  of  Sidon  and  Tyre,  of  Babylon  and  Susa,  [as  of  a  faded  pageant,] 
and  to  say  all  these  were,  and  are  now  nothing,  to  think  that  we  exist  in 
such  a  point  of  time,  and  in  such  a  corner  of  space,  to  be  at  once  specta- 
tors and  a  part  of  the  moving  scene,  to  watch  the  return  of  the  seasons,  of 
spring  and  autumn,  to  hear 

—  "The  stockdove  plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 
[That  drowsy  rustles  to  the  sighing  gale  "  — ] 

to  traverse  desert  wildernesses,  to  listen  to  the  midnight  choir,  to  visit 
lighted  halls,  or  plunge  into  the  dungeon's  gloom,  or  sit  in  crowded 
theatres  and  see  hfe  itself  mocked,  to  feel  heat  and  cold,  pleasure  and 
pain,  right  and  wrong,  [truth  and  falsehood,]  to  study  the  works  of 
art  and  refine  the  sense  of  beauty  to  agony,  to  worship  fame  and  to 
dream  of  immortality,  to  have  read  Shakespeare  [and  belong  to  the 


ON   THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN   YOUTH      189 

of  war,  the  shout  of  victory ;  to  question  history  as  to  the  move- 
ments of  the  human  heart ;  to  seek  for  truth ;  to  plead  the  cause 
of  humanity;  to  overlook  the  world  as  if  time  and  Nature 
poured  their  treasures  at  our  feet  — ]  to  be  and  to  do  all  this, 
and  then  in  a  moment  to  be  nothing  —  to  have  it  all  snatched 
from  us  by  a  juggler's  trick  or  a  phantasmagoria  !  There  is 
something  in  this  transition  from  all  to  nothing  that  shocks  us  and 
damps  the  enthusiasm  of  youth  new  flushed  with  hope  and  pleasure, 
and  we  cast  the  comfortless  thought  as  far  from  us  as  we  can.  In 
the  first  enjoyment  of  the  estate  of  life  we  discard  the  fear  of 
debts  and  duns,  and  never  think  of  the  final  payment  of  our 
great  debt  to  Nature.  Art,  we  know,  is  long;  life,  we  flatter 
ourselves,  should  be  so  too.  We  see  no  end  of  the  difiiculties 
and  delays  we  have  to  encounter :  perfection  is  slow  of  attain- 
ment, and  we  must  have  time  to  accomplish  it  in.  The  fame  of 
the  great  names  we  look  up  to  is  immortal :  and  shall  not  we 
who  contemplate  it  imbibe  a  portion  of  ethereal  fire,  the  divinoe 
particula  aura,  which  nothing  can  extinguish?  A  wTinkle  in 
Rembrandt  or  in  Nature  takes  whole  days  to  resolve  itself  into 
its  component  parts,  its  softenings  and  its  sharpnesses ;  we  re- 
fine upon  our  perfections,  and  unfold  the  intricacies  of  Nature. 
What  a  prospect  for  the  future  !  What  a  task  have  we  not 
begun  !  And  shall  we  be  arrested  in  the  middle  of  it  ?  We  do 
not  count  our  time  thus  employed  lost,  or  our  pains  thrown 
away ;  we  do  not  flag  or  grow  tired,  but  gain  new  vigor  at  our 
endless  task.  Shall  Time,  then,  grudge  us  to  finish  what  we 
have  begun,  and  have  formed  a  compact  with  Nature  to  do? 

same  species  as  Sir  Isaac  Newton ;]  to  be  and  to  do  all  this,  and  then 
in  a  moment  to  be  nothing,  to  have  it  all  snatched  from  one  like  a 
juggler's  ball  or  a  phantasmagoria ;  there  is  something  revolting  and 
incredible  to  sense  in  the  transition  ;  and  no  wonder  that,  aided  by  youth 
and  warm  blood,  and  the  flush  of  enthusiasm,  the  mind  contrives  for  a  long 
lime  to  reject  it  with  disdain  and  loathing  as  a  monstrous  and  improbable 
fiction.  .  .  .^ 

1  From  this  point  for  several  pages  the  correspondence  lietween  the  two  versions 
is  very  slight,  the  earher  being  much  more  diffuse. 


i()o  rxFOR.\r.\L  i:.ssAV 

Why  not  till  up  ihc  blank  lluit  is  Icll  us  in  ihis  manner  ?  I 
have  looked  for  hours  at  a  Rembrandt  without  being  conscious 
of  the  lliuht  of  time,  but  with  ever  new  wonder  and  delight,  have 
thought  that  nol  only  my  own  but  another  existence  I  could 
pass  in  the  same  manner.  This  rarefied,  relined  existence  seemed 
to  have  no  end,  nor  stint,  nor  principle  of  decay  in  it.  The 
print  would  remain  long  after  I  who  looked  on  it  had  become 
the  prey  of  worms.  The  thing  seems  in  itself  out  of  all  reason  : 
health,  strength,  appetite,  are  opposed  to  the  idea  of  death,  and 
we  are  not  ready  to  credit  it  till  we  have  found  our  illusions 
vanished  and  our  hopes  grown  cold.  Objects  in  youth,  from 
novelty,  &c.,  are  stamped  upon  the  brain  with  such  force  and 
integrity  that  one  thinks  nothing  can  remove  or  obliterate  them. 
They  are  riveted  there,  and  appear  to  us  as  an  element  of  our 
nature.  It  must  be  a  mere  violence  that  destroys  them,  not  a 
natural  decay.  '  In  the  very  strength  of  this  persuasion  we  seem 
to  enjoy  an  age  by  anticipation.  We  melt  down  years  into  a 
single  moment  of  intense  sympathy,  and  by  anticipating  the 
fruits  defy  the  ravages  of  time.  If,  then,  a  single  moment  of 
our  lives  is  worth  years,  shall  we  set  any  limits  to  its  total  value 
and  extent?  Again,  does  it  not  happen  that  so  secure  do  we 
think  ourselves  of  an  indefinite  period  of  existence,  that  at 
times,  when  left  to  ourselves,  and  impatient  of  novelty,  we  feel 
annoyed  at  what  seems  to  us  the  slow  and  creeping  progress  of 
time,  and  argue  that  if  it  always  moves  at  this  tedious  snail's- 
pace  it  will  never  come  to  an  end  ?  How  ready  are  we  to  sac- 
rifice any  space  of  time  which  separates  us  from  a  favorite 
object,  little  thinking  that  before  long  we  shall  find  it  move  too 
fast! 

For  my  part,  I  started  in  life  with  the  French  Revolution, 
and  I  have  lived,  alas  !  to  see  the  end  of  it.  But  I  did  not  fore- 
see this  result.  My  sun  arose  with  the  first  dawn  of  liberty,  and 
I  did  not  think  how  soon  both  must  set.  The  new  impulse  to 
ardor  given  to  men's  minds,  imparted  a  congenial  warmth  and 
glow  to  mine ;  we  were  strong  to  run  a  race  together,  and  I 
little  dreamed  that  long  before  mine  was  set,  the  sun  of  liberty 
would  turn  to  blocd,  or  set  once  more  in  the  night  of  despotism. 


ON   THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN    YOUTH      191 

Since  then,  I  confess,  I  have  no  longer  felt  myself  young,  for 
with  that  my  hopes  fell. 

I  have  since  turned  my  thoughts  to  gathering  up  some  of  the 
fragments  of  my  early  recollections,  and  putting  them  into  a 
form  to  which  I  might  occasionally  revert.  The  future  was 
barred  to  my  progress,  and  I  turned  for  consolation  and  en- 
couragement to  the  past.  It  is  thus  that,  while  we  find  our 
personal  and  substantial  identity  vanishing  from  us,  we  strive 
to  gain  a  reflected  and  vicarious  one  in  our  thoughts :  we  do 
not  like  to  perish  wholly,  and  wish  to  bequeath  our  names,  at 
least,  to  posterity.  As  long  as  we  can  make  our  cherished 
thoughts  and  nearest  interests  live  in  the  minds  of  others,  we 
do  not  appear  to  have  retired  altogether  from  the  stage.  We 
still  occupy  the  breasts  oj  others,  aitd  exert  an  influence  and  power 
over  them,  and  it  is  only  our  bodies  that  are  reduced  to  dust  and 
powder.  Our  favorite  speculations  still  find  encouragement, 
and  we  make  as  great  a  figure  in  the  eye  of  the  world,  or  perhaps 
a  greater,  than  in  our  lifetime.  The  demands  of  our  self-love  are 
thus  satisfied,  [and  these  are  the  most  imperious  and  unre- 
mitting.] Besides,  if  by  our  intellectual  superiority  we  survive 
ourselves  in  this  world,  by  our  virtues  and  faith  we  may  attain  an 

It  is  thus,  that  when  we  find  our  personal  and  substantial  identity 
vanishing  from  us,  we  strive  to  gain  a  reflected  and  substituted  one 
in  our  thoughts  :  we  do  not  like  to  perish  wholly,  and  wish  to  bequeath 
our  names,  at  least,  to  posterity.  As  long  as  we  can  keep  alive  our 
cherished  thoughts  and  nearest  interests  in  the  minds  of  others,  we 
do  not  appear  to  have  retired  altogether  from  the  stage,  we  still  occupy 
a  place  in  the  estimation  of  mankind,  exercise  a  powerful  influence  over 
tliem,  and  it  is  only  our  bodies  that  are  trampled  into  dust  or  dispersed 
to  air.  Our  darling  speculations  still  find  favor  and  encouragement, 
and  we  make  as  good  a  figure  in  the  eyes  of  our  descendants,  nay,  per- 
haps, a  better  than  we  did  in  our  life-time.  [This  is  one  point  gained  ;] 
the  demands  of  our  self-love  are  so  far  satisfied.  Besides,  if  by  the 
proofs  of  intellectual  superiority  we  survive  ourselves  in  this  world, 
by  exemplary  virtue  or  unblemished  faith,  we  are  taught  to  ensure  an 
interest  in  another  and  a  higher  state  of  being,  and  to  anticipate  at 
the  same  time  the  applauses  of  men  and  angels. 


192  INFORMAL   ESSAY 

intiTcsl  in  anolluT  and  a  hij^hcr  state  of  being,  and  may  thus  be 
'ii/yitnts  at  the  same  time  of  men  and  of  angels. 

"E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  Nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  iishes  live  their  wonted  fires." 

As  we  f^rou'  old,  our  sense  of  the  value  of  time  becomes  vivid. 
Nothing  else,  indeed,  seems  of  any  consequence.  We  can  never 
cease  wondering  l/i-at  that  which  has  ever  been  should  cease  to  be. 
We  tind  many  things  remain  the  same :  why,  then,  should  there 
be  change  in  us  ?  This  adds  a  convulsive  grasp  of  whatever  is, 
a  sense  of  a  fallacious  hoUowness  in  all  we  see.  Instead,  of 
the  full,  pulpy  feeling  of  youth,  [tasting  existence  and  every 
object  in  it,]  all  is  flat  and  vapid,  —  a  whited  sepulchre,  fair 
without,  but  full  of  ravening  and  all  uncleanness  within.  The 
world  is  a  witch  that  puts  us  off  with  false  shows  and  appearances. 
The  simplicity  of  youth,  the  confiding  expectation,  the  bomuJless 
raptures,  are  gone;  [we  only  think  of  getting  out  of  it  as  well  as 
we  can,  and  without  any  great  mischance  or  annoyance.  The 
liush  of  illusion,  even  the  complacent  retrospect  of  past  joys  and 
hopes,  is  o\er :]  if  we  can  slip  out  of  life  without  indignity,  can 
escape  with  little  bodily  infirmity,  and  frame  our  minds  to  the 
calm  and  respectable  composure  of  still-life  before  we  return  to 


"Even  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries; 
Even  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires." 

As  we  advance  in  life,  we  acquire  a  keener  sense  of  the  value  of  time. 
Nothing  else,  indeed,  seems  of  any  consequence ;  [and  we  become 
misers  in  this  respect.  We  try  to  arrest  its  few  last  tottering  steps, 
and  to  make  it  linger  on  the  brink  of  the  grave.]  We  can  never  leave 
off  wondering  //du'  that  which  has  ever  been  should  cease  to  be,  [and 
would  still  live  on.  that  we  may  wonder  at  our  own  shadow,  and  when 
"all  the  life  of  life  is  flown,"  dwell  on  the  retrospect  of  the  past.] 
This  is  accompanied  by  a  mechanical  tenaciousness  of  whatever  we  possess, 
by  a  distrust  atui  a  sense  of  fallacious  hollowncss  in  all  we  see.  Instead 
of  the  full,  pulpy  feeling  of  youth,  everything  is  fiat  and  insipid.  The 
world  is  a  painted  witch,  that  puts  us  off  with  false  shows  and  letnpting 
appenrances.     The  ease,  the  jocund  gaiety,  the  unsuspecting  security  of 


ON   THE  FEELING  OF  IMMORTALITY  IN   YOUTH 


193 


physical  nothingness,  it  is  as  much  as  we  can  expect.  We  do  not 
die  wholly  at  our  deaths:  we  have  mouldered  away  gradually 
long  before.  Faculty  after  facility,  [interest  after  interest], 
attachment  after  attachment,  disappear:  we  are  torn  from  our- 
selves while  living,  year  after  year  sees  us  no  longer  the  same, 
and  death  only  consigns  the  last  fragment  of  what  we  were  to 
the  grave.  That  we  should  wear  out  by  slow  stages,  and  dwindle 
at  last  into  nothing,  is  not  wonderful,  when  even  in  our  prime  our 
strongest  impressions  leave  little  trace  but  for  the  moment,  and  we 
are  the  creatures  of  petty  circumstance.  How  little  efiect  is  made 
on  us  in  our  best  days  by  the  books  we  have  read,  the  scenes  we 
have  witnessed,  the  sensations  we  have  gone  through  !  Think 
only  of  the  feelings  we  experience  in  reading  a  fine  romance  [one 
of  Sir  Walter's,  for  instance;]    what  beauty,  what  sublimity, 

youth  are  fled:  [nor  can  we,  without  flying  in  the  face  of  common 
sense, 

"From  the  last  dregs  of  life,  hope  to  receive 
What  its  first  sprightly  runnings  could  not  give."] 

If  we  can  slip  out  of  the  world  without  notice  or  mischance,  can  tam- 
per with  bodily  infirmity,  and  frame  our  minds  to  the  becoming  com- 
posure of  still-life,  before  we  sinii  into  total  insensibility,  it  is  as  much 
as  we  ought  to  expect.  We  do  not  in  the  regtdar  course  of  nature  die 
all  at  once:  we  have  mouldered  away  gradually  long  before ;  faculty 
after  faculty,  attachment  after  attachment,  we  are  torn  from  ourselves 
piece-meal  while  living  ;  year  after  year  lakes  something  from  us;  and 
death  only  consigns  the  last  remnant  of  what  we  were  to  the  grave. 
[The  revulsion  is  not  so  great,  and  a  quiet  euthanasia  is  a  wmding-up 
of  the  plot,  that  is  not  out  of  reason  or  nature.] 

That  we  should  thus  in  a  manner  outlive  ourselves,  and  dwindle 
imperceptibly  into  nothing,  is  not  surprising,  when  even  in  our  prime 
the  strongest  impressions  leave  so  little  traces  of  themselves  behind,  and 
the  last  object  is  driven  out  by  the  succeeding  one.  How  little  effect  is 
produced  on  us  at  any  time  by  the  books  we  have  read,  the  scenes  we 
have  witnessed,  the  sufferings  we  have  gone  through !  Think  only 
of  the  variety  of  feelings  we  experience  in  reading  an  interesting  ro- 
mance, [or  being  present  at  a  fine  play  —  ]  what  beauty,  what  sub- 
Umity,  what  soothing,  what  heart-rending  emotions  !  You  would 
o 


104  IMVRMAI.    ESSAY 

what  iukrcst,  what  hcart-rciuiinp;  emotions  !  You  would  sup- 
pose t/w  jcclini^s  you  then  rxprriciucd  would  last  for  ever,  or  sub- 
due the  mind  to  their  (rwii  harmony  and  tone:  while  we  are  reading, 
it  seems  as  if  nothing  coukl  ever  put  us  out  of  our  way  or  trouble  us: 
—  the  first  splash  of  mud  that  we  get  on  entering  the  street,  the 
frst  twopence  we  are  cheated  out  of,  the  feeling  vanishes  clean  out 
of  our  winds,  and  we  become  the  prey  oj  petty  and  annoying 
circumstance.  The  mind  soars  to  the  lofty :  it  is  at  home  in 
the  grovelling,  the  disagreeable,  and  the  little.  [And  yet  we 
wonder  that  age  should  be  feeble  and  querulous,  —  that  the 
freshness  of  youth  should  fade  away.  Both  worlds  would 
hardly  satisfy  the  extravagance  of  our  desires  and  of  our  pre- 
sumption.] 

suppose  these  would  last  for  ever,  or  at  least  subdue  the  mind  to  a  corre- 
spondent lone  and  harmony  —  while  we  turn  over  the  page  [while  the 
scene  is  passing  before  us,]  it  seems  as  if  nothing  could  ever  after  shake 
our  resolution,  [that  "treason  domestic,  foreign  levy,  nothing  could 
touch  us  farther !"]  The  first  splash  of  mud  we  get,  on  entering  the 
street,  the  first  pettifogging  shop-keeper  that  cheats  us  out  of  twopence, 
and  the  whole  vanishes  clean  out  of  our  remembrance,  and  we  become 
the  idle  prey  of  the  most  petty  and  annoying  circumstances.  The  mind 
soars  by  an  ejfort  to  the  grand  and  lofty  :  it  is  at  home  in  the  grovelling, 
the  disagreeable,  and  the  little.  [This  happens  in  the  height  and  hey- 
day of  our  existence,  when  novelty  gives  a  stronger  impulse  to  the  blood 
and  takes  a  faster  hold  of  the  brain,  (I  have  known  the  impression  on 
coming  out  of  a  gallery  of  pictures  then  last  half  a  day)  —  as  we  grow 
old,  we  become  more  feeble  and  querulous,  every  object  "reverbs  its 
own  hollowness,"  and  both  worlds  are  not  enough  to  satisfy  the 
peevish  importunity  and  extravagant  presumption  of  our  desires ! 
There  are  a  few  superior,  happy  beings,  who  are  born  with  a  temper 
exempt  from  ever>'  trifling  annoyance.  This  spirit  sits  serene  and 
smiling  as  in  its  native  skies,  and  a  divine  harmony  (whether  heard 
or  not)  plays  around  them.  This  is  to  be  at  peace.  Without  this, 
it  is  in  vain  to  fly  into  deserts,  or  to  build  a  hermitage  on  the  top  of 
rocks,  if  regret  and  ill-humor  follow  us  there :  and  with  this,  it  is 
needless  to  make  the  experiment.  The  only  true  retirement  is  that 
of  the  heart ;  the  only  true  leisure  is  the  repose  of  the  passions.  To 
such  persons  it  makes  little  difference  whether  they  are  young  or  old  ; 
and  they  die  as  they  have  lived,  with  graceful  resignation.] 


I.   F.   REVIEWS   AND    CRITICISMS 

JANE  AUSTEN'S   EMMA 

Walter  Scott 

He  who  paints  le  beau  ideal,  if  his  scenes  and  sentiments  are 
striking  and  interesting,  is  in  a  great  measure  exempted  from 
the  difficult  task  of  reconciling  them  with  the  ordinary  proba- 
bilities of  life ;  but  he  who  paints  a  scene  of  common  occur- 
rence places  his  composition  within  that  extensive  range  of 
criticism  which  general  experience  offers  to  every  reader.  The 
resemblance  of  a  statue  of  Hercules  we  must  take  on  the  artist's 
judgment ;  but  every  one  can  criticize  that  which  is  presented 
as  the  portrait  of  a  friend  or  neighbor,  [i'^omething  more  than 
a  mere  sign-post  likeness  is  also  demanded.  The  portrait  must 
have  spirit  and  character,  as  well  as  resemblance ;  and  being 
deprived  of  all  that  which,  according  to  Bayes,  "goes  to  elevate 
and  surprise,"  it  must  make  amends  by  displaying  depth  of 
knowledge  and  dexterity  of  execution.  We  therefore  bestow 
no  mean  compliment  upon  the  author  of  Emma,  when  we  say 
that,  keeping  close  to  common  incidents  and  to  such  characters 
as  occupy  the  ordinary  walks  of  life,  she  has  produced  sketches 
of  such  spirit  and  originality,  that  we  never  miss  the  excitation 
which  depends  upon  a  narrative  of  uncommon  events,  arising 
from  the  consideration  of  minds,  manners,  and  sentiments 
greatly  above  our  own.  In  this  class  she  stands  almost  alone ; 
for  the  scenes  of  Miss  Edgeworth  are  laid  in  higher  life,  varied 
by  more  romantic  incident,  and  by  her  remarkable  power  of 
embodying  and  illustrating  national  character.  But  the  author 
of  Emma  confines  herself  chiefly  to  the  middling  classes  of 
society ;  her  most  distinguished  characters  do  not  rise  greatly 
above  well-bred  country  gentlemen  and  ladies ;  and  those  which 


l()6  REVIEWS  AXD  CRITICISMS 

arc  sketcht'd  with  most  orij^inality  and  precision,  belong  lo  a 
class  rather  l)eknv  that  standard.  The  narrative  of  all  her 
novels  is  composed  of  such  common  occurrences  as  may  have 
fallen  under  the  oliservation  of  most  folks;  and  her  dramatis 
pcrs&nct  conduct  themselves  upon  the  motives  aiid  principles 
which  the  readers  may  recognise  as  ruling  their  ow^n  and  that  of 
most  of  their  acquaintances.  The  kind  of  moral,  also,  which 
these  novels  inculcate  applies  ecjually  to  the  paths  of  common 
life,  as  will  best  appear  from  a  short  notice  of  the  author's  former 
works,  with  a  more  full  abstract  of  that  which  we  at  present 
have  under  consideration. 

Saise  ami  Sensihility,  the  first  of  these  compositions,  contains 
the  history  of  two  sisters.  The  elder,  a  young  lady  of  prudence 
and  regulated  feelings,  becomes  gradually  attached  to  a  man  of 
an  excellent  heart  and  limited  talents,  who  happens  unfor- 
tunately to  be  fettered  by  a  rash  and  ill-assorted  engagement. 
In  the  younger  sister,  the  influence  of  sensibility  and  imagina- 
tion predominates;  and  she,  as  was  to  be  expected,  also  falls 
in  love,  but  with  more  unbridled  and  wilful  passion.  Her  lover, 
gifted  with  all  the  qualities  of  exterior  polish  and  vivacity,  proves 
faithless,  and  marries  a  woman  of  large  fortune.  The  interest 
and  merit  of  the  piece  depend  altogether  upon  the  behavior 
of  the  elder  sister,  while  obliged  at  once  to  sustain  her  own 
disappointment  with  fortitude,  and  to  support  her  sister,  who 
abandons  herself,  with  unsuppressed  feelings,  to  the  indulgence 
of  grief.  The  marriage  of  the  unworthy  rival  at  length  relieves 
her  own  lover  from  his  imprudent  engagement,  while  her  sister, 
turned  wise  by  precept,  example,  and  experience,  transfers  her 
affection  to  a  very  respectable  and  somewhat  too  serious  ad- 
mirer, who  had  nourished  an  unsuccessful  passion  through  three 
volumes. 

In  Prvle  and  Prejudice  the  author  presents  us  with  a  family  of 
young  women,  bred  up  under  a  foolish  and  vulgar  mother,  and 
a  father  whose  good  abilities  lay  hid  under  such  a  load  of  in- 
dolence and  insensibility,  that  he  had  become  contented  to  make 
the  foibles  and  follies  of  his  wife  and  daughters  the  subject  of 
dry   and   humorous  sarcasm,   rather   than   of   admonition,   or 


JANE  AUSTEN'S  EMMA  197 

restraint.  This  is  one  of  the  portraits  from  ordinary  life  which 
shows  OUT  author's  talents  in  a  very  strong  point  of  view.  A 
friend  of  ours,  whom  the  author  never  saw  or  heard  of,  was  at 
once  recognized  by  his  own  family  as  the  original  of  Mr.  Bennet, 
and  we  do  not  know  if  he  has  yet  got  rid  of  the  nickname.  A 
Mr.  Collins,  too,  a  formal,  conceited,  yet  servile  young  sprig  of 
divinity,  is  drawn  with  the  same  force  and  precision.  The  story 
of  the  piece  consists  chiefly  in  the  fate  of  the  second  sister, 
to  whom  a  man  of  high  birth,  large  fortune,  but  haughty  and 
reserved  manners,  becomes  attached  in  spite  of  the  discredit 
thrown  upon  the  object  of  his  affection  by  the  vulgarity  and  ill- 
conduct  of  her  relations.  The  lady,  on  the  contrary,  hurt  at 
the  contempt  of  her  connections,  which  the  lover  does  not  even 
attempt  to  suppress,  and  prejudiced  against  him  on  other  ac- 
counts, refuses  the  hand  which  he  ungraciously  offers,  and  does 
not  perceive  that  she  has  done  a  foolish  thing  until  she  acci- 
dentally visits  a  very  handsome  seat  and  grounds  belonging  to 
her  admirer.  They  chance  to  meet  exactly  as  her  prudence  had 
begun  to  subdue  her  prejudice;  and* after  some  essential  ser- 
vices rendered  to  her  family,  the  lover  becomes  encouraged  to 
renew  his  addresses,  and  the  novel  ends  happily. 

Emma  has  even  less  story  than  either  of  the  preceding  novels. 
Miss  Emma  Woodhouse,  from  whom  the  book  takes  its  name,  is 
the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  of  wealth  and  consequence  residing 
at  his  seat  in  the  immediate  vicinage  of  a  country  village  called 
Highbury.  The  father,  a  good-natured  silly  valetudinary, 
abandons  the  management  of  his  household  to  Emma,  he  him- 
self being  only  occupied  by  his  summer  and  winter  walk,  his 
apothecary,  his  gruel,  and  his  whist  table.  The  latter  is  sup- 
plied from  the  neighboring  village  of  Highbury  with  precisely 
the  sort  of  persons  who  occupy  the  vacant  corners  of  a  regular 
whist  table,  when  a  village  is  in  the  neighborhood,  and  better 
cannot  be  found  within  the  family.  We  have  the  smiling  and 
courteous  vicar,  who  nourishes  the  ambitious  hope  of  obtaining 
Miss  Woodhouse's  hand.  We  have  Mrs.  Bates,  the  wife  of  a 
former  rector,  past  everything  but  tea  and  whist ;  her  daughter, 
Miss  Bates,  a  good-natured,  vulgar,  and  foolish  old  maid;  Mr. 


19S  REVIKWS  A.\D  CRITICISMS 

WostiMi,  a  gentleman  of  a  frank  disposiliDn  and  moderate  for- 
tune, in  the  vicinity,  and  his  wife,  an  amiable  and  accomplished 
person,  who  had  been  Emma's  governess,  anil  is  devotedly 
attached  to  her.  Amongst  all  these  personages,  Miss  Wood- 
house  walks  forth,  the  princess  paramount,  superior  to  all  her 
com[xinions  in  wit,  beauty,  fortune,  and  accomplishments, 
doted  upon  by  her  father  and  the  Westons,  admired,  and  al- 
most worshipped,  by  the  more  humble  companions  of  the  whist 
table.  The  object  of  most  young  ladies  is,  or  at  least  is  usually 
supposed  to  be,  a  desirable  connection  in  marriage.  But  Emma 
Woodhouse,  either  anticipating  the  taste  of  a  later  period  of 
life,  or,  like  a  good  sovereign  preferring  the  weal  of  her  subjects 
of  Highbury  to  her  own  private  interest,  sets  generously  about 
making  matches  for  her  friends  without  thinking  of  matrimony 
on  her  own  account.  We  are  informed  that  she  had  been  emi- 
nently successful  in  the  case  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Weston  ;  and  when 
the  novel  commences  she  is  exerting  her  influence  in  favor  of 
Miss  Harriet  Smith,  a  boarding-school  girl  without  family  or 
fortune,  very  good  humored,  very  pretty,  very  silly,  and,  what 
suited  Miss  Woodhouse's  purpose  best  of  all,  very  much  dis- 
posed to  be  married. 

In  these  conjugal  machinations  Emma  is  frequently  inter- 
rupted, not  only  by  the  cautions  of  her  father,  who  had  a  par- 
ticular objection  to  anybody  committing  the  rash  act  of  matri- 
mony, but  also  by  the  sturdy  reproof  and  remonstrances  of 
Mr.  Knightly,  the  elder  brother  of  her  sister's  husband,  a  sen- 
sible country  gentleman  of  thirty-five,  who  had  known  Emma 
from  her  cradle,  and  was  the  only  person  who  ventured  to  find 
fault  with  her.  In  spite,  however,  of  his  censure  and  warning, 
Emma  lays  a  plan  of  marrying  Harriet  Smith  to  the  \dcar ;  and 
though  she  succeeds  perfectly  in  diverting  her  simple  friend's 
thoughts  from  an  honest  farmer  who  had  made  her  a  very 
suitable  offer,  and  in  flattering  her  into  a  passion  for  Mr.  Elton, 
yet,  on  the  other  hand,  that  conceited  divine  totally  mistakes 
the  nature  of  the  encouragement  held  out  to  him,  and  attrib- 
utes the  favor  which  he  found  in  Miss  Woodhouse's  eyes  to  a 
lurkinp  affection  on  her  own  part.     This  at  length  encourages 


JANE  AUSTEN'S  EMMA 


199 


him  to  a  presumptuous  declaration  of  his  sentiments;  upon 
receiving  a  repulse,  he  looks  abroad  elsewhere,  and  enriches  the 
Highbury  society  by  uniting  himself  to  a  dashing  young  woman 
with  as  many  thousands  as  are  usually  called  ten,  and  a  cor- 
responding quantity  of  presumption  and  ill-breeding. 

While  Emma  is  thus  vainly  engaged  in  forging  wedlock-fetters 
for  others,  her  friends  have  views  of  the  same  kind  upon  her, 
in  favor  of  a  son  of  Mr.  Weston  by  a  former  marriage  who  bears 
the  name,  lives  under  the  patronage,  and  is  to  inherit  the  fortune 
of  a  rich  uncle.  Unfortunately,  Mr.  Frank  Churchill  had  al- 
ready settled  his  affections  on  Miss  Jane  Fairfax,  a  young  lady  of 
reduced  fortune ;  but  as  this  was  a  concealed  affair,  Emma,  when 
Mr.  Churchill  first  appears  on  the  stage,  has  some  thoughts  of 
being  in  love  with  him  herself ;  speedily,  however,  recovering 
from  that  dangerous  propensity,  she  is  disposed  to  confer  him 
upon  her  deserted  friend  Harriet  Smith.  Harriet  has  in  the 
interim  fallen  desperately  in  love  wdth  Mr.  Knightly,  the  sturdy 
advice-giving  bachelor ;  and,  as  all  the  village  supposes  Frank 
Churchill  and  Emma  to  be  attached  to  each  other,  there  are 
cross  purposes  enough  (were  the  novel  of  a  more  romantic 
cast)  for  cutting  half  the  men's  throats,  and  breaking  all  the 
women's  hearts.  But  at  Highbury  Cupid  walks  decorously, 
and  with  good  discretion,  bearing  his  torch  under  a  lanthorn, 
instead  of  flourishing  it  around  to  set  the  house  on  fire.  All 
these  entanglements  bring  on  only  a  train  of  mistakes  and  em- 
barrassing situations,  and  dialogues  at  balls  and  parties  of  pleas- 
ure, in  which  the  author  displays  her  peculiar  powers  of  humor 
and  knowledge  of  human  life.  The  plot  is  extricated  with  great 
simplicity.  The  aunt  of  Frank  Churchill  dies ;  his  uncle,  no 
longer  under  her  baneful  influence,  consents  to  his  marriage 
with  Jane  Fairfax.  Mr.  Knightly  and  Emma  are  ed,  by  this 
unexpected  incident,  to  discover  that  they  had  been  in  love  with 
each  other  all  along.  Mr.  Woodhouse's  objections  to  the  mar- 
riage of  his  daughter  are  overpowered  by  the  fears  of  house- 
breakers, and  the  comfort  which  he  hopes  to  derive  from  having 
a  stout  son-in-law  resident  in  the  family ;  and  the  facile  affec- 
tions of  Harriet  Smith  are  transferred,  like  a  bank  bill  by  in- 


200  REVIEWS  AND  CRITICISMS 

dorsation,  to  her  former  suitor,  the  lioncst  farmer,  who  ha(^ 
ol)taincd  a  favorable  opportunity  of  renewing  his  addresses. 
Such  is  the  simple  plan  of  a  story  which  we  peruse  with  pleasure, 
if  not  with  deep  interest,  and  which  perhaps  we  might  more 
willingly  resume  than  one  of  those  narratives  where  the  atten- 
tion is  strongly  riveted,  during  the  first  perusal,  by  the  powerful 
excitement  of  curiosity. 

The  author's  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  the  peculiar  tact 
with  which  she  presents  characters  that  the  reader  cannot  fail 
to  recognize,  reminds  us  something  of  the  merits  of  the  Flemish 
school  of  painting.  The  subjects  are  not  often  elegant,  and 
certainly  never  grand ;  but  they  are  finished  up  to  nature,  and 
with  a  precision  which  delights  the  reader.  This  is  a  merit 
which  it  is  very  difficult  to  illustrate  by  extracts,  because  it  per- 
vades the  whole  work,  and  is  not  to  be  comprehended  from  a 
single  passage. 

******* 

The  faults,  on  the  contrary,  arise  from  the  minute  detail  which 
the  author's  plan  comprehends.  Characters  of  folly  or  sim- 
plicity, such  as  those  of  old  Woodhouse  and  Miss  Bates,  are 
ridiculous  when  first  presented,  but  if  too  often  brought  forward 
or  too  long  dwelt  upon,  their  prosing  is  apt  to  become  as  tiresome 
in  fiction  as  in  real  society.  Upon  the  whole,  the  turn  of  this 
author's  novels  bears  the  same  relation  to  that  of  the  sentimental 
and  romantic  cast,  that  cornfields  and  cottages  and  meadows 
bear  to  the  highly  adorned  grounds  of  a  show  mansion,  or  the 
rugged  sublimities  of  a  mountain  landscape.  It  is  neither  so 
captivating  as  the  one,  nor  so  grand  as  the  other,  but  it  affords 
to  those  who  frequent  it  a  pleasure  nearly  allied  with  the  ex- 
perience of  their  own  social  habits ;  and  what  is  of  some  impor- 
tance, the  youthful  wanderer  may  return  from  his  promenade  to 
the  ordinary'  business  of  life,  without  any  chance  of  having  his 
head  turned  by  the  recollection  of  the  scene  through  which  he 
has  been  wandering. 


ON   THE   TATLE^^^^-Xh^Jcfjf, 


20t 


ON  THE   TATLER^ 

William  Hazlitt 

Of  all  the  periodical  Essayists  (our  ingenious  predecessors), 
the  Taller  has  always  appeared  to  us  the  most  accomplished  and 
agreeable.  Montaigne,  who  was  the  father  of  this  kind  of  per- 
sonal authorship  among  the  moderns,  in  which  the  reader  is 
admitted  behind  the  curtain,  and  sits  down  with  the  writer  in 
his  gown  and  slippers,  was  a  most  magnanimous  and  undis- 
guised egotist;  but  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  Esq.,  was  the  more  dis- 
interested gossip  of  the  two.  The  French  author  is  contented 
to  describe  the  peculiarities  of  his  own  mind  and  person,  which 
he  does  with  a  most  copious  and  unsparing  hand.  The  English 
journalist,  goodnaturedly,  lets  you  into  the  secret  both  of  his 
own  affairs  and  those  of  his  neighbors.  A  young  lady,  on  the 
other  side  of  Temple  Bar,  cannot  be  seen  at  her  glass  for  half  a 
day  together,  but  Mr.  Bickerstaff  takes  due  notice  of  it ;  and  he 
has  the  first  intelligence  of  the  symptoms  of  the  belle  passion 
appearing  in  any  young  gentleman  at  the  west  end  of  the  town. 
The  departures  and  arrivals  of  widows  with  handsome  jointures, 
either  to  bury  their  grief  in  the  country,  or  to  procure  a  second 
husband  in  town,  are  regularly  recorded  in  his  pages.  He  is 
well  acquainted  with  the  celebrated  beauties  of  the  last  age  at 
the  Court  of  Charles  the  Second,  and  the  old  gentleman  often 
grows  romantic  in  recounting  the  disastrous  strokes  which  his 
youth  suffered  from  the  glance  of  their  bright  eyes  and  their 
unaccountable  caprices.  In  particular,  he  dwells  with  a  secret 
satisfaction  on  one  of  his  mistresses  who  left  him  for  a  rival, 
and  whose  constant  reproach  to  her  husband,  on  occasion  of  any 
quarrel  between  them,  was,  "I,  that  might  have  married  the 
famous  Mr.  Bickerstaff,  to  be  treated  in  this  manner!"  The 
club  at  the  Trumpet  consists  of  a  set  of  persons  as  entertaining 
as  himself.  The  cavalcade  of  the  justice  of  the  peace,  the 
knight  of  the  shire,  the  country  squire,  and  the  young  gentleman, 

'  From  the  Round  Table. 


202  REVIEWS   AND  CRITICISMS 

his  nephew,  who  waited  on  him  at  his  chainl»ers  in  siuli  form  and 
ceremony,  seem  not  to  have  settled  the  order  of  their  i)recedencc 
to  this  hour ;  and  we  should  hope  the  upholsterer  and  his  coni- 
panions  in  the  Green  Park  stand  as  fair  a  chance  for  immortality 
as  some  modern  politicians.  Mr.  BickerstafT  himself  is  a  gentle- 
man and  a  scholar,  a  humorist  and  a  man  of  the  world,  with  a 
great  deal  of  nice  easy  naivete  about  him.  If  he  walks  out  and 
is  caught  in  a  shower  of  rain,  he  makes  us  amends  for  this  un- 
lucky accident  by  a  criticism  on  the  shower  in  Virgil,  and  con- 
cludes \yith  a  burlesciue  copy  of  verses  on  a  city  shower.  He 
entertains  us,  when  he  dares,  from  his  own  apartment,  with  a 
quotation  from  Plutarch  or  a  moral  reflection  ;  from  the  Grecian 
cofifeehouse  with  politics,  and  from  WilVs  or  the  Temple  with 
the  poets  and  players,  the  beaux  and  men  of  wit  and  pleasure 
about  town.  In  reading  the  pages  of  the  Tatler  we  seem  as  if 
suddenly  transported  to  the  age  of  Queen  Anne  —  of  toupees 
and  full-bottomed  periwigs.  The  whole  appearance  of  our 
dress  and  manners  undergoes  a  delightful  metamorphosis.  We 
are  surprised  with  the  rustling  of  hoops  and  the  glittering  of 
paste  buckles.  The  Ijeaux  and  belles  are  of  a  quite  different 
species ;  we  distinguish  the  dappers,  the  smarts,  and  the  pretty 
fellows,  as  they  pass ;  we  are  introduced  to  Betterton  and  Mrs. 
Oldfield  behind  the  scenes  —  are  made  familiar  with  the  persons 
of  Mr.  Penkethman  and  Mr.  Bullock ;  we  listen  to  a  dispute  at 
a  tavern  on  the  merits  of  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  or  Marshal 
Turenne ;  or  are  present  at  the  first  rehearsal  of  a  play  by  Van- 
brugh,  or  the  reading  of  a  new  poem  by  Mr.  Pope.  The  privi- 
lege of  thus  virtually  transporting  ourselves  to  past  times  is 
even  greater  than  that  of  visiting  distant  places.  London  a 
hundred  years  ago  would  be  better  worth  seeing  than  Paris  at 
the  present  moment. 


THE   WAVERLEV  NOVELS  203 

THE  WAVERLEY  NOVELS  1 

George  Edward  Woodberry 

The  basis  of  reality  in  the  Waverley  Novels  is  one  of  their 
most  distinguishing  qualities,  and  underlies  their  endurance  in 
literature.  It  is  not  merely  that  particular  characters  are 
studied  from  life ;  that  George  Constable  and  John  Clerk  sat 
for  The  Antiquary,  that  Scott  himself  is  Mr.  Mannering,  that 
Laidlaw  or  another  is  Dandie  Dinmont ;  nor  is  it  that  other 
characters,  like  Meg  Merrillies  and  the  gypsies  are  suggestions 
from  living  figures  that  had  arrested  the  author's  passing  glance. 
It  is  not  that  the  scene  of  Castle  Dangerous  is  governed  by 
what  his  eye  beheld  on  his  visit  there,  or  the  whole  landscape  of 
The  Pirate  transcribed  from  his  voyages  among  the  islands  of 
the  north.  Still  less  is  it  what  he  gained  from  books,  either  of 
ordinary  history  and  records  of  events  or  such  sermons  as  those 
from  which  he  transferred  the  dark  and  intense  eloquence  of 
Old  Mortality.  He  had  such  a  marvellous  memory  for  whatever 
bore  the  national  stamp,  he  was  so  brain-packed  with  the  ocular 
and  audible  experience  of  his  converse  with  the  people,  so  full  of 
their  physiognomy,  gesture,  and  phrase,  that  he  fed  his  nar- 
rative incessantly  with  actuality ;  and  such  was  his  surplus  of 
treasure  of  this  sort  that  in  his  general  edition  he  continued  to 
pour  out  an  illustrative  stream  of  anecdote,  reminiscence,  and 
antiquarian  lore  in  the  notes  and  prefaces.  A  keen  friend  was 
confirmed  in  his  belief  of  Scott's  authorship  by  the  presence  of 
a  striking  phrase  that  he  heard  him  once  use.  The  Scotch  novels 
are,  as  it  were,  an  amalgam  of  memory.  When  he  came  to 
write  them,  all  his  love  of  tradition  and  the  country-side  with 
which  his  mind  was  impregnated,  was  precipitated  in  an  un- 
failing flow.  It  was  because  Scott  was  so  much  alive  with 
Scotland,  that  he  made  his  characters  live  with  that  intense 
reality,  that  instant  conviction  of  their  truth,  in  which  he  is  to 

■  From  the  essay  on  Scott  in  Great  Writers.  The  Macmillan  Company,  igo7. 
Reprinter]  by  permission. 


204  REVIEWS  AND   CRITICfSMS 

be  compared  only  with  Shakespeare.  It  is  true  that  it  is  a  man 
of  letters  who  wrote  the  Wavcrley  Novels,  a  mind  fed  on  the 
stulT  of  mediicval  romance  and  on  the  tradition  of  the  English 
drama,  the  "  old  play  "  of  which  he  was  so  fond  ;  but  the  literary 
element  in  the  tales  is  a  thing  of  allusion,  like  VVaverley's  studies, 
or  episodical,  as  in  the  character  of  Bunce  or  on  a  more  impor- 
tant scale  of  Sir  Percie  Shafton,  or  else  its  rambling  antiquarian- 
ism  serves  to  set  forth  Scotch  pedantry  appropriately.  The 
Waverley  Novels  are  not  a  development  out  of  older  literature, 
they  are  an  original  growth,  a  fresh  form  of  the  imaginative  in- 
terpretation of  the  human  past,  a  new  and  vital  rendering 
straight  from  life.  Even  in  the  tales  whose  scene  is  laid  in 
England  and  the  continent,  where  Scott  was  more  dependent 
on  printed  sources,  the  literary  element  is  little  more  perceptible 
than  in  the  Scotch  novels  themselves ;  the  sense  of  reality  in 
them  is  not  appreciably  less.  Rut  Scott  already  had  the  best 
historical  education  as  a  living  discipline  in  assimilating  his  own 
country,  and  he  came  to  the  interpretation  of  history  in  other 
lands  with  trained  powers  of  understanchng  and  imagination  in 
that  field.  A  distinguished  historian  once  expressed  to  me  his 
admiration  for  Count  Robert  of  Paris,  and  I  w'as  glad  to  find 
such  unexpected  support  for  my  own  liking  of  this  novel,  ivhich 
is  generally  regarded,  I  believe,  as  a  pitiable  example  of  Scott's 
mental  decline ;  but  my  friend  had  been  struck,  he  said,  by  its 
remarkable  grasp  of  history,  its  brilliant  adequacy  in  that  way. 
It  was  the  same  power  with  which  Scott  had  grasped  Ivanhoe, 
and  told  the  tale  of  Quentin  Durward,  and  made  Richard  Lion- 
heart  like  one  of  Shakespeare's  kings.  He  had  learned  the  way 
by  making  history-  alive  on  his  own  heath  in  the  most  living  con- 
tact with  the  past  that  ever  man  had. 

Veracity  is  the  first  great  quality  of  the  Waverley  Novels. 
The  second  is  emotional  power.  Scott  was  a  man  of  strength ; 
he  liked  strong  deeds  and  strong  men ;  and  he  liked  strong 
emotions.  I  do  not  mean  the  passion  of  love,  in  which  he  showed 
little  interest.  The  way  of  a  man  with  a  maid  was  not  to  him  the 
whole  of  life.  In  the  national  temperament  in  its  action  in 
history  he  found  two  great  emotions :    the  passion  of  loyalty, 


THE  WAVERLEY  NOVELS  205 

which  was  incarnate  in  the  Cavaliers  and  clans,  and  the  en- 
thusiasm of  religion  which  filled  the  Covenanters.  These  were 
social  forces  and  supported  a  lifelong  character  in  men.  They 
gave  ideal  elevation  to  the  tragic  and  cruel  events  which  belong 
to  Scotch  history,  and  made  an  atmosphere  about  the  actors 
which  glowed  with  life.  Scott  shared  to  the  full  the  national 
capacity  for  enthusiasm,  and  was  in  his  own  imaginary  world 
as  much  a  Jacobite  as  he  was  a  border-raider ;  and  he  put  into 
his  representation  a  fervor  hardly  less  than  contemporary.  He 
was  master,  too,  on  the  scale  of  private  as  opposed  to  public 
feeling,  of  all  the  moods  of  sorrow,  and  especially  of  that  dark 
and  brooding  spirit,  frequent  in  the  Scotch  character,  which  he 
has  repeatedly  drawn.  Such  emotion,  in  the  people  or  in  in- 
dividuals, is  the  crucible  of  romance.  He  used  its  fires  to  the 
full.  Whether  the  scene  be  battle-broad  or  dungeon-narrow, 
whether  the  passion  involves  the  fortune  of  a  crown  or  burns  in 
the  single  breast  of  Ravenswood,  he  finds  in  those  deep-flowing 
and  overmastering  human  feelings  the  ideal  substance  which 
makes  his  romances  so  charged  with  power  over  the  heart,  with 
the  essential  meaning  of  human  life,  in  its  course  in  character, 
and  at  its  moments  of  personal  crisis.  The  homogeneity  of  this 
power  of  passion  with  the  events  of  Scotch  history  and  with  the 
character  of  the  people  is  complete,  the  unity  of  the  whole  is 
reinforced  by  the  romantic  quality  of  the  landscape,  which  is  its 
appropriate  setting.  The  state  of  society,  its  stage  in  civiliza- 
tion, is  also  in  keeping.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  kind  of  Homeric  world, 
without  any  fancifulness ;  or  if,  when  the  parallel  is  stated,  the 
difference  is  more  felt  than  the  likeness,  it  is  a  world  of  free 
action,  bold  character,  primitive  customs,  as  well  as  of  high 
feeling  and  enterprise,  such  as  has  fallen  to  the  lot  of  no  other 
author  since  Homer  to  depict  with  the  same  breadth  and  ele- 
vation. It  was  good  fortune  for  Scott,  too,  that  he  could  follow 
Shakespeare's  example  in  relieving  the  serious  scene  with 
humor.  It  is  humor  of  the  first  quality,  which  lies  in  character 
itself,  and  not  in  farcical  action  or  the  buffoonery  of  words. 
It  centres  in  and  proceeds  from  eccentricity,  in  which  the  Scot- 
tish character  is  also  rich;    nor  in  general  is  the  eccentricity 


2o6  REVIEWS  AXD  CRITICISMS 

overstrained  i>r  monotonously  insisted  on.  Scott  is  very  tender 
of  his  fools,  whose  defectiveness  in  nature  is  never  made  a  re- 
proach or  cruel  burden  to  themselves ;  and  the  humorous  side 
of  his  serious  characters  only  completes  their  humanity.  All 
parts  of  life  thus  enter  into  his  general  material,  but  harmoni- 
ously. His  share  of  artistic  power  was  instinctive ;  he  was 
never  very  conscious  of  it ;  but  it  was  most  remarkable  in  the 
perfect  blend  he  made  of  the  elements  he  used.  The  Pirate  is 
an  admirable  example.  It  is  a  sea  story,  and  takes  its  whole 
atmosphere  from  the  coasts  where  its  action  lies.  The  struggle 
with  the  elements  in  Mordaunt's  opening  journey  is  like  an 
overture ;  the  rescue  of  the  sailor-castaway,  the  cliff-setting  of 
Mertoun's  house,  the  old  Norse  of  the  patriarch's  home,  and  the 
life  of  the  beach  there  with  its  fishing  fleet,  the  superstitious 
character  of  Xorna,  the  weird  familiar  of  the  winds,  the  bardic 
lays  of  Claude  Halcro,  the  sentimental  pirate-father,  and  the 
son  with  his  crew,  the  secret  of  the  past  which  unlocks  the  plot, 
—  all  these  make  a  combination  of  land,  character,  and  story, 
each  raised  in  power  by  imaginative  treatment  to  a  romantic 
height,  and  echoing  the  same  note  of  the  sea  one  to  the  other 
in  a  blend  as  naturally  one  as  sky,  cliff,  and  weather.  As  a  sea 
piece,  given  by  character  and  event  as  well  as  by  description,  it 
is  an  unrivalled  work,  and  this  is  due  to  its  artistic  keeping. 
This  power  of  blend  was  an  essential  element  in  Scott's  genius ; 
by  it  his  romance  becomes  integral  in  plot,  character,  and 
setting ;  and  this  felicity  of  composition  achieves  in  its  own  way 
the  same  end  in  artistic  effect  that  is  sought  in  another  way  by 
construction  in  the  strict  sense.  Scott  never  fails  in  unity  of 
feeling ;   it  was  a  part  of  his  emotional  gift. 

The  third  commanding  trait  of  the  Waverley  Novels  is  crea- 
tive power.  It  is  this  that  places  Scott  among  the  greatest 
imaginative  prose  writers  of  the  world,  and  makes  him  the  first 
of  romancers  as  Shakespeare  is  the  first  of  dramatists.  He  had 
that  highest  faculty  of  genius  which  works  with  the  simplicity 
of  nature  herself  and  has  something  magical  in  its  immediacy, 
in  the  way  in  which  it  escapes  observation  and  in  its  total  suc- 
cess ;  he  speaks  the  word,  and  there  is  a  world  of  men,  moving, 


THE  WAVERLEY  NOVELS  207 

acting,  suffering  in  the  wholeness  of  Ufe.  These  masters  of 
imagination,  too,  have  as  many  moulds  as  nature;  whoever 
appears  on  the  scene  of  Homer  or  Shakespeare,  no  one  is 
surprised ;  and  Scott  was  as  fertile  as  any  of  his  kind.  He  is 
a  master  of  behavior,  for  both  gentleman  and  peasant,  and  of 
the  phrases  that  seem  the  very  speech  of  a  man's  mouth.  The 
world  of  gentlemen  is  represented  in  its  motives  and  interests, 
its  sacrifices  and  ideas  for  both  age  and  youth,  with  a  sympathetic 
comprehension  that  makes  it  seem  the  most  just  tribute  ever 
given  to  the  essential  nobility  of  that  kind  of  life,  aristocratic 
in  ideal,  warring,  terrible  in  what  it  did  and  what  it  suffered,  but 
habitually  moving  in  a  high  plane  of  conduct  and  having  for 
its  life-breath  that  passion  of  loyalty,  which,  however  un- 
reasoning or  mistaken,  is  one  of  the  glorious  virtues  of  men. 
The  world  of  humble  life,  likewise,  is  rendered  with  vivid  truth 
in  its  pursuits,  trials,  and  submissions,  the  virtues  welling  from 
the  bloo'd  itself  in  peril,  sorrow,  natural  affection,  for  man  and 
woman,  for  every  time  of  life  and  in  every  station  of  the  poor. 
It  is  in  the  language  of  these  characters  that  the  life  lies  with 
most  efficacy;  only  nature  makes  men  and  women  who  can 
speak  thus ;  and  the  solidity  of  their  speech  is  part  of  the  sim- 
plicity of  their  lives.  Cuddle's  mother  in  Old  Mortality,  the 
old  fisherman,  Mucklebackit,  in  The  Antiquary,  Jennie  Deans 
in  The  Heart  of  Midlothian,  are  examples ;  but  Scott's  truth  of 
touch  in  such  dealing  with  the  poor  is  unfailing.  If  the  behavior 
of  his  gentlemen  appeals  to  the  sense  of  chivalry  in  every  gen- 
erous breast,  the  words  of  his  humble  persons  go  straight  to  the 
heart  of  all  humanity.  In  both  classes  there  is  a  vitality  that  is 
distinguishable  from  life  itself  only  by  its  higher  power.  He 
creates  from  within ;  he  shows  character  in  action  so  fused  that 
the  being  and  the  doing  are  one ;  he  achieves  expression  in  its 
highest  form  —  the  expression  of  a  soul  using  its  human  powers 
in  earthly  life.  This  is  the  creative  act ;  not  the  scientific 
exhibit  of  the  development  of  character,  not  the  analytic  ex- 
amination of  psychology  and  motivation,  for  which  inferior 
talent  suffices,  but  the  reveaUng  flash  of  genius  which  shows 
the  fair  soul  in  the  fair  act,  be  it  in  the  highest  or  the  lowest  of 


20S  KEVIEWS  AXD  CRITICISMS 

mon,  in  t^ood  fortiiiu-  or  bad,  triuni[)hanl  or  tragic,  or  on  the. 
level  of  all  men's  days.  It  belonged  to  Scott's  conception  of 
life  that  character  and  act  should  be  in  perfect  equipoise;  to 
find  them  so  is  the  su[)reme  moment  of  art.  It  was  the  moment 
of  Shakespeare  and  Homer,  in  drama  and  epic ;  and  it  is  the 
moment  of  Scott  in  the  novel.  The  living  power  of  his  men  and 
women  by  virtue  of  which  once  in  the  mind  they  never  die  out 
of  it,  but  remain  with  the  other  enduring  figures  of  imagination, 
"forms  more  real  than  living  man,"  proceeds  from  this  union 
of  passion,  truth,  and  creative  power  with  the  form  and  pressure 
of  life  itself.  The  material  is  always  noble,  and  the  form  into 
which  Scott  throws  it  is  manly.  The  impression  of  all  he  creates 
is  of  nobility;  not  the  nobility  that  requires  high  cultivation  or 
special  consecration  to  supreme  self-sacrifice,  but  such  nobility 
as  is  within  the  reach  of  most  men,  to  be  honest  and  brave, 
tender  and  strong,  simple,  true,  and  gallant,  fair  to  a  foe  and 
faithful  to  our  own. 

MARK  TWAIN  1 

Stuart  Pratt  Sherman 

Not  by  his  subtlety,  nor  his  depth,  nor  his  elevation,  but  by 
his  understanding  and  his  unflinching  assertion  of  the  ordinary 
self  of  the  ordinary  American,  did  Mark  Twain  become  our 
"foremost  man  of  letters." 

He  was  geographically  an  American ;  he  knew  his  land  and 
its  idioms  at  first  hand  —  Missouri,  the  Mississippi  River  and 
its  banks,  Nevada,  California,  New  England,  New  York,  the 
great  cities.  It  is  insufficiently  recognized  that  to  love  one's 
country  intelligently  one  must  know  its  body,  as  well  as  its 
mind.  He  had  the  good  fortune  to  be  born  in  the  West ;  so 
that,  of  course,  he  had  to  go  East  —  otherwise  he  might,  instead 
of  becoming  an  American,  have  remained  a  mere  Bostonian  or 
New  Yorker  all  his  life,  and  never  have  learned  to  love  Chicago 

'  From  the  fXew  York)  Nation,  May  12,  1910.  (Vol.  XC,  pp.  478-480.)  Re- 
printed by  permission  of  the  author. 


MARK   TWAIN  209 

and  San  Francisco  at  all.  At  various  times  and  places  he  was 
pilot,  printer,  editor,  reporter,  minister,  lecturer,  author,  and 
publisher.  But  during  the  first  half  of  his  life,  he  went  most 
freely  with  "powerful  uneducated  persons,  and  with  the  young, 
and  with  the  mothers  of  families."  The  books  in  which  he  em- 
bodies his  early  experiences  —  Tom  Sawyer,  Roughing  It,  Huckle- 
berry Finn  —  are  almost  entirely  delightful.  They  breathe 
the  spirit  of  eternal  boyhood,  they  are  richly  provincial,  they 
spring  out  of  the  fresh  earth.  There  is  a  touch  of  melodrama  in 
the  first  and  more  than  a  touch  of  farce  in  the  last,  but  in  the 
main  they  are  as  native  as  a  bluff  to  the  Mississippi  or  a  pine 
tree  to  a  red  spur  of  the  Rockies. 

It  is  when  an  American  carries  his  virtues  abroad  that  the 
lines  of  his  character  become  salient.  Mark  Twain  was  a  self- 
made  man,  of  small  Latin  and  less  Greek,  indifferent  to  ab- 
stractions, deficient  in  historical  sympathy  and  imagination, 
insensitive  to  delicate  social  differences,  content  and  at  home  in 
modern  workaday  realities.  I  confess  with  great  apprehension 
that  I  do  not  much  care  for  his  books  of  foreign  travel.  Like 
the  story  told  on  Whittier's  birthday,  they  are  "smart  and  sat- 
urated with  humor";  but  for  some  almost  indefinable  reason 
my  emotions  fail  to  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion.  An 
uneasy  doubt  about  the  point  of  view  binds  my  mirth  as  with 
a  "black  frost."  I  find  myself  concerned  for  my  fellow-citizen, 
the  author  behind  the  books ;  beneath  the  surface  gayety  the 
whole  affair  seems  to  be  of  appalling  seriousness  for  us  both. 
Ostensibly  light-hearted  burlesques  of  the  poetical  and  senti- 
mental volumes  of  travel,  these  books  are  in  reality  an  amazingly 
faithful  record  of  the  way  Europe  and  the  Orient  strike  the 
"divine  average"  —  the  typical  American  —  the  man  for  whom 
the  world  .was  created  in  1776.  Wandering  through  exhumed 
Pompeii,  he  peoples  its  solemn  ruins  with  the  American  pro- 
letariat, and  fancies  that  he  sees  upon  the  walls  of  its  theatre 
the  placard,  "Positively  No  Free  List,  Except  Members  of  the 
Press."  He  digresses  from  an  account  of  the  ascent  of  Vesuvius 
to  compare  the  prices  of  gloves,  linen  shirts,  and  dress  suits  in 
Paris  and  in  Italy.     At  length  arrived  at  the  summit  of  the 


210  RliVfKlVS   AM)  CRITICISMS 

mountain,  he  describes  its  crater  as  a  "circular  ditch";  some 
of  tlu-  party  light  their  cigars  in  the  fissures;  he  descends,  ob- 
serving that  the  volcano  is  a  poor  affair  when  compared  with 
K.ilauea.  in  the  Sandwich  Ishmds.  He  visits  the  Parthenon  in 
the  night ;  obviously,  the  memorable  feature  of  the  expedition 
was  robbing  the  vineyards  on  the  way  back  to  the  ship.  The 
most  famous  picture  galleries  of  Europe  are  hung  with  "cele- 
brated rubbish";  the  immemorial  Mosque  of  St.  Sophia  is  the 
"mustiest  barn  in  heathendom"  ;  the  Sea  of  Galilee  is  nothing 
tc  Lake  Tahoe.  The  Mississippi  pilot,  homely,  naive,  arrogantly 
candid,  refuses  to  sink  his  identity  in  the  object  contemplated 
—  that,  as  Corporal  Xym  would  have  said,  is  the  humor  of  it. 
He  is  the  kind  of  travelling  companion  that  makes  you  wonder 
why  you  went  abroad.  He  turns  the  Old  World  into  a  laughing- 
stock by  shearing  it  of  its  storied  humanity  —  simply  because 
there  is  nothing  in  him  to  respond  to  the  glory  that  was  Greece, 
to  the  grandeur  that  was  Rome — simply  because  nothing  is  holier 
to  him  than  a  joko.  He  does  not  throw  the  comic  light  upon 
counterfeit  enthusiasm ;  he  laughs  at  art,  history,  and  antiquity 
from  the  point  of  xiew  of  one  who  is  ignorant  of  them  and 
mightily  well  satisfied  with  his  ignorance.  And,  unless  I  am 
very  much  mistaken,  the  "overwhelming  majority"  of  his 
fellow-citizens  —  those  who  made  the  success  of  Innocents 
A  broad  and  .1  Tramp  A  broad  —  have  laughed  with  him,  not 
at  him.  So,  too,  unquestionably,  in  the  nearly  parallel  case  of 
that  bludgeoning  burlesque,  A  Connecticut  Yankee  at  King 
Arthur's  Court. 

What  endears  a  public  man  to  us  is  what  he  has  in  common 
with  us  —  not  his  occasional  supereminences.  It  does  not  dam- 
age Frankhn  to  say  that  he  was  not  so  graceful  as  Lord  Chester- 
field ;  nor  Lincoln  to  say  that  he  was  not  so  handsome  as  Count 
D'Orsay;  nor  Mr.  Roosevelt  to  say  that  one  misses  in  his 
literary  st\le  I  know  not  what  that  one  finds  in  the  style  of 
Walter  Savage  Landor.  Writing  from  Khartum,  the  hunter 
tells  us  that,  in  consequence  of  hard  service  in  camp,  his  pigskin 
books  were  "stained  wnth  blood,  sweat,  gun  oil,  dust,  and 
ashes."     We  have  a  mystical  feeling  that  this  is  very  appropriate 


MARK   TWAIN  211 

and  beautiful  —  that  a  good  American's  books  ought  to  be 
stained  with  gun  oil  and  ashes.  "  Fear  grace  —  fear  deUcatesse," 
cries  the  author  of  Chants  Democratic.  It  does  not  damage 
Mark  Twain  to  say  that  there  was  not  a  drop  of  the  aristocrat 
in  his  veins. 

In  pontics  he  was  an  intelligent  but  unspeculative  democrat, 
committed  to  the  principles  of  the  preamble  to  the  Constitution, 
preserving  a  tang  of  Tom  Paine's  contempt  for  kings,  and  not 
without  a  suggestion  of  the  republican  insolence  caricatured  by 
Dickens  in  Martin  Chuzzlewit.  I  do  not  think  that  he  gave  a 
''square  deal"  either  to  Europe  or  to  the  Arthurian  realm;  but 
within  his  own  territory  he  had  a  very  genuine  sense  of  the 
brotherhood  of  man.  He  was  not,  like  some  more  exquisite 
men  of  letters,  a  democrat  in  his  study  and  a  snob  in  his  drawing- 
room  ;  he  was  of  the  people  and  for  the  people  at  all  times. 
His  tender  regard  for  the  social  contract  permeated  his  humor. 
It  will  be  remembered  that  Pudd'nhead  Wilson  earned  his 
nick-name  and  ruined  his  chances  as  a  lawyer  for  twenty  years 
by  an  incomprehensible  remark  about  a  howling  dog.  "I  wish 
I  owned  half  of  that  dog,"  said  Wilson.  "Why?"  somebody 
asked.  "Because  I  would  kill  my  half."  No  one  understood 
him  —  the  sensitive,  symbolic  democracy  of  the  expression  was 
too  compact  for  their  intelligence,  and  they  fell  into  a  delicious 
discussion  of  how  one  half  could  be  killed  without  injury  to  the 
other  half.  That,  to  be  sure,  is  also  one  of  the  problems  of 
democracy;  but  Wilson's  implications  were,  I  believe,  both 
simpler  and  deeper  than  that.  In  not  molesting  another  man's 
dog  he  showed  the  American  reverence  for  property.  The 
American  desire  to  be  moderately  well-to-do  (Mr.  Roosevelt's 
"neither  rich  nor  poor")  he  indicated  by  desiring  to  own  only 
half  the  dog.  In  saying  that  he  would  kill  his  half,  he  expressed 
his  sacred  and  inalienable  right  to  dispose  of  his  own  property 
as  he  chose,  while  at  the  same  time  he  recognized  his  neighbor's 
sacred  and  inalienable  right  to  let  his  half  of  the  property  howl. 
Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  that  he  did  not  recognize  that  the  dog 
itself  had  a  certain  property  right  in  howling. 

With  almost   every  qualification   for   a   successful  political 


212  REVFEWS  A.\n   CRIT/CfS.US 

career,  Mark  Twain  could  never  lui\e  aspired  to  the  Presidencv, 
for  he  was  not  a  regular  attendant  at  church  —  a  shortcoming, 
by  the  way,  which  interfered  seriously  with  Mr.  Taft's  campaign 
till  his  former  pastor  testified  in  the  pul)lic  prints  that  the  can- 
didate had  once  at  a  church  social  taken  the  part  of  a  fairy. 
In  religion,  Twain  appeared  to  be  a  mugwump,  or,  more  classi- 
cally speaking,  an  agnostic  over  whom  had  fallen  the  shadow 
of  Robert  Ingersoll  of  pious  memory.  The  irreligion  of  that 
generation  is  touched  with  a  raw,  philistine  rationalism,  but  is 
thoroughly  honest.  Like  all  Americans,  the  author  of  7o;« 
Sawyer  received  his  rehgious  culture  in  the  Sunday-school,  but 
stumbled  over  the  book  of  Genesis  and  kindred  difficulties,  and 
was  "emancipated."  The  loss  of  faith  which,  in  proper  con- 
ditions, is  a  terrible  bereavement,  was  to  him  a  blessed  relief ; 
when  the  God  of  the  Sunday-school  and  the  camp  meeting  ceases 
to  terrify,  he  ordinarily  becomes  a  deadly  bore.  Having  never 
known  the  magnificent  poetry  of  faith,  he  never  felt  the  magnif- 
icent melancholy  of  unbelief.  His  experience  was  typical, 
however,  and  his  very  unspirituality  was  social.  In  his  exam- 
ination of  Christian  Science,  he  admitted  that  every  man  is 
entitled  to  his  own  favorite  brand  of  insanity,  and  insisted  that 
he  himself  was  as  insane  as  anybody.  That  was  enough  to 
assure  most  of  us  that  he  was  sound  on  "all  essentials." 

"Be  good  and  you  will  be  lonesome"  is,  I  suppose,  one  of 
Mark  Twain's  most  widely  quoted  utterances  on  moral  topics. 
At  first  thought,  one  may  wonder  why  this  apparently  Bohemian 
apothegm  should  have  taken  such  hold  upon  the  heart  of  a 
nation  which  above  all  things  else  adores  virtue.  But  the  diffi- 
culty disappears  the  instant  one  reflects  that  these  seven  words 
express  as  in  a  nutshell  precisely  the  kind  and  temper  of  virtue 
that  the  nation  adores.  Like  Wilson's  observation  on  the  dog, 
the  saying  is  cryptic  and  requires  explication.  Twain  tells  us 
in  his  autobiography  that  when  he  was  a  boy  his  mother  always 
allowed  about  thirty  per  cent  on  what  he  said  for  "embroidery" 
and  so  "struck  the  average."  The  saying  means,  as  I  take  it, 
first  of  all.  Don't  lose  your  sense  of  humor  as  those  do  who  be- 
come infatuated  with  their  own  particular  hobbies  in  goodness. 


MARK   TWAIN  213 

Calculate  to  keep  about  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  but  make 
allowance  for  all  reasonable  shades  of  difference  in  taste  and 
opinion.  Don't  be  too  good  or  you  will  find  yourself  in  a  barren 
and  uninfiuential  minority  of  one.  In  America,  whatever  is 
not  social  is  not  virtue.  When  he  put  his  shoulder  under  the 
debts  of  his  bankrupt  publishing  house,  the  author  of  the  apo- 
thegm himself  explained  its  meaning.  Natively  fond  of  strong 
language,  careless  of  peccadilloes,  tolerant  of  all  human  frailties 
though  he  was  —  kin-making  touches  of  nature  —  his  feet 
were  "mortised  and  tenoned"  in  domestic  rectitude  and  common 
morality.    . 

"We  cannot  live  always  on  the  cold  heights  of  the  sublime  — ■ 
the  thin  air  stifles"  —  I  have  forgotten  who  said  it.  We 
cannot  flush  always  with  the  high  ardor  of  the  signers  of  the 
Declaration,  nor  remain  on  the  level  of  the  address  at  Gettys- 
burg, nor  cry  continually,  "O  Beautiful!  My  country!" 
Yet,  in  the  dull  long  interspaces  between  these  sacred  moments 
we  need  some  one  to  remind  us  that  we  are  a  nation.  For  in 
the  dead  vast  and  middle  of  the  years,  insidious  foes  are  stirring 
—  anaemic  refinements,  cosmopolitan  decadencies,  the  egotistic 
and  usurping  pride  of  great  cities,  the  cold  sickening  of  the 
heart  at  the  reiterated  exposures  of  giant  fraud  and  corruption. 
When  our  countrymen  migrate  because  we  have  no  kings  or 
castles,  we  are  thankful  to  any  one  who  will  tell  us  what  we  can 
count  on.  When  they  complain  that  our  soil  lacks  the  humanity 
essential  to  great  literature,  we  are  grateful  even  for  the  firing 
of  a  national  joke  heard  round  the  world.  And  when  Mark 
Twain,  robust,  big-hearted,  gifted  with  the  divine  power  to  use 
words,  makes  us  all  laugh  together,  builds  true  romances  with 
prairie  fire  and  western  clay,  and  shows  us  that  we  are  at  one 
on  all  the  main  points,  we  feel  that  he  has  been  appointed  by 
Providence  to  see  to  it  that  the  precious  ordinary  self  of  the 
Republic  shall  suffer  no  harm. 


214  RFA  n:\VS  AM)  CRITICISMS 

TLRM:RS    "SLAVE   SHir"i 

John-  Ruskin 

Tni-:  noblest  sea  that  Turner  has  ever  painted,  and,  if  so,  the 
noblest  certainly  eN'er  painted  by  man,  is  that  of  the  "Slave  Shij)," 
the  chief  Academy  picture  of  the  Exhibition  of  1840.  It  is  a 
sunset  on  the  Atlantic  after  prolonged  storm ;  but  the  storm  is 
partially  lulled,  and  the  torn  and  streaming  rain-clouds  are 
moving  in  scarlet  lines  to  lose  themselves  in  the  holloM-  of  the 
night.  The  whole  surface  of  sea  included  in  the  jMcture  is 
di\-ided  into  two  ridges  of  enormous  swell,  not  high,  nor  local, 
but  a  low,  broad  hea\'ing  of  the  whole  ocean,  like  the  lifting  of 
its  bosom  by  deep-drawn  breath  after  the  torture  of  the  storm. 
Between  these  two  ridges,  the  fire  of  the  sunset  falls  along  the 
trough  of  the  sea,  dyeing  it  with  an  awful  but  glorious  light, 
the  intense  and  lurid  splendor  which  burns  like  gold  and  bathes 
like  blood.  Along  this  fiery  path  and  valley,  the  tossing  waves 
by  which  the  swell  of  the  sea  is  restlessly  dixided,  lift  themselves 
in  dark,  indefinite,  fantastic  forms,  each  casting  a  faint  and 
ghastly  shadow  behind  it  along  the  illumined  foam.  They  do 
not  rise  everywhere,  but  three  or  four  together  in  wild  groups, 
fitfully  and  furiously,  as  the  under  strength  of  the  swell  compels 
or  permits  them ;  leaving  between  them  treacherous  spaces  of 
level  and  whirling  water,  now  lighted  with  green  and  lamp-like 
fire,  now  flashing  back  the  gold  of  the  declining  sun,  now  fear- 
fully dyed  from  above  with  the  indistinguishable  images  of  the 
burning  clouds,  which  fall  upon  them  in  flakes  of  crimson  and 
scarlet,  and  give  to  the  reckless  waves  the  added  motion  of  their 
own  fiery  flying.  Purple  and  blue,  the  lurid  shadows  of  the 
hollow  breakers  are  cast  upon  the  mist  of  the  night,  which 
gathers  cold  and  low,  advancing  like  the  shadow  of  death  upon 
the  guilty  ship  as  it  labors  amidst  the  lightning  of  the  sea,  its 
thin  masts  written  upon  the  sky  in  lines  of  blood,  girded  with 
condemnation  in  that  fearful  hue  which  signs  the  sky  with  horror, 

•  From  Modern  Painters. 


THE  CLASSICAL   LANDSCAPES  OF  CLAUDE  215 

and  mixes  its  flaming  flood  with  the  sunlight,  —  and  cast  far 
along  the  desolate  heave  of  the  sepulchral  waves,  incarnadines 
the  multitudinous  sea. 

I  believe,  if  I  were  reduced  to  rest  Turner's  immortality  upon 
any  single  work,  I  should  choose  this.  Its  daring  conception 
—  ideal  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word  —  is  based  on  the 
purest  truth,  and  wrought  out  with  the  concentrated  knowledge 
of  a  life ;  its  color  is  absolutely  perfect,  not  one  false  or  morbid 
hue  in  any  part  or  line,  and  so  modulated  that  every  square 
inch  of  canvas  is  a  perfect  composition ;  its  drawing  as  accurate 
as  fearless ;  the  ship  buoyant,  bending,  and  full  of  motion ;  its 
tones  as  true  as  they  are  wonderful;  and  the  whole  picture 
dedicated  to  the  most  sublime  of  subjects  and  impressions  .  .  . 
the  power,  majesty,  and  deathfulness  of  the  open,  deep,  illimit- 
able sea. 


THE   CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPES   OF   CLAUDE  ^ 

John  Ruskin 

Claude  had  a  fine  feeling  for  beauty  of  form  and  considerable 
tenderness  of  perception.  His  aerial  effects  are  unequalled. 
Their  character  appears  to  me  to  arise  rather  from  a  delicacy  of 
bodily  constitution  in  Claude,  than  from  any  mental  sensibility ; 
such  as  they  are,  they  give  a  kind  of  feminine  charm  to  his  work, 
which  partly  accounts  for  its  wide  influence.  To  whatever  the 
character  may  be  traced,  it  renders  him  incapable  of  enjoying 
or  painting  anything  energetic  or  terrible.  Hence  the  weakness 
of  his  conception  of  rough  sea. 

He  had  sincerity  of  purpose.  But  in  common  with  other 
landscape  painters  of  his  day,  neither  earnestness,  humility,  nor 
love,  such  as  would  ever  cause  him  to  forget  himself.  That  is 
to  say,  as  far  as  he  felt  the  truth,  he  tried  to  be  true ;  but  he 
never  felt  it  enough  to  sacrifice  supposed  propriety,  or  habitual 
method  to  it.     Very  few  of  his  sketches,  and  none  of  his  pictures, 

From  Modern  Painters. 


2l6  REVIEWS  AXD  CRITICISMS 

show  evidence  of  interest  in  other  natural  phenomena  than  the 
quiet  afternoon  sunshine  which  would  fall  methodically  into  a 
composition.  One  would  suppose  he  had  never  seen  scarlet  in 
a  morninjT  clouil,  nor  a  storm  burst  on  the  Apennines.  But  he 
enjoys  a  quiet  misty  afternoon  in  a  ruminant  sort  of  way,  yet 
truly ;  and  strives  for  the  likeness  of  it,  therein  diflering  from 
Salvator,  who  never  attemjits  to  be  truthful,  but  only  to  be 
impressive. 

His  seas  are  the  most  beautiful  in  old  art.  For  he  studied 
tame  waves,  as  he  did  tame  skies,  with  great  sincerity,  and  some 
affection ;  and  modelled  them  with  more  care  not  only  than  any 
other  landscape  painter  of  his  day,  but  even  than  any  of  the 
greater  men ;  for  they,  seeing  the  perfect  painting  of  the  sea  to 
be  impossible,  gave  up  the  attempt,  and  treated  it  convention- 
ally. But  Claude  took  so  much  pains  about  this,  feeling  it  was 
one  of  his  forks,  that  I  suppose  no  one  can  model  a  small  wave 
better  than  he. 

He  first  set  the  pictorial  sun  in  the  pictorial  heaven.  We  will 
give  him  the  credit  of  this,  with  no  drawbacks. 

He  had  hardly  any  knowledge  of  physical  science,  and  shows 
a  peculiar  incapacity  of  understanding  the  main  point  of  a 
matter.  Connected  with  which  incapacity  is  his  want  of  har- 
mony in  expression. 

Such  were  the  principal  qualities  of  the  leading  painter  of 
classical  landscape,  his  eflfeminate  softness  carr^ang  him  to  dis- 
like all  evidences  of  toil,  or  distress,  or  terror,  and  to  delight  in 
the  calm  formalities  which  mark  the  school. 

Although  he  often  introduces  romantic  incidents  and  mediaeval 
as  well  as  Greek  or  Roman  personages,  his  landscape  is  always 
in  the  true  sense  classic  —  everything  being  "elegantly"  (select- 
ingly  or  tastefully),  not  passionately,  treated.  The  absence  of 
indications  of  rural  labor,  of  hedges,  ditches,  haystacks,  ploughed 
fields,  and  the  like ;  the  frequent  occurrence  of  ruined  temples, 
or  masses  of  ruined  palaces ;  and  the  graceful  wildness  of  growth 
in  his  trees,  are  the  principal  sources  of  the  "elevated"  character 
which  so  many  persons  feel  in  his  scenery.    - 

There  is  no  other  sentiment  traceable  in  his  work  than  his 


THE  CLASSICAL  LANDSCAPES  OF   CLAUDE  217 

weak  dislike  to  entertain  the  conception  of  toil  or  suffering. 
Ideas  of  relation,  in  the  true  sense,  he  has  none ;  nor  ever  makes 
an  effort  to  conceive  an  event  in  its  probable  circumstances,  but 
fills  his  foregrounds  with  decorative  figures,  using  commonest 
conventionalism  to  indicate  the  subject  he  intends.  We  may- 
take  two  examples,  merely  to  show  the  general  character  of 
such  designs  of  his. 

1 .  St.  George  and  the  Dragon.  The  scene  is  a  beautiful  opening 
in  woods  by  a  river  side,  a  pleasant  fountain  springs  on  the  right, 
and  the  usual  rich  vegetation  covers  the  foreground.  The 
dragon  is  about  the  size  of  ten  bramble  leaves,  and  is  being  killed 
by  the  remains  of  a  lance,  barely  the  thickness  of  a  walking- 
stick,  in  his  throat,  curling  his  tail  in  a  highly  offensive  and 
threatening  manner.  St.  George,  notwithstanding,  on  a  pranc- 
ing horse,  brandishes  his  sword,  at  about  thirty  yards'  distance 
from  the  offensive  animal. 

A  semicircular  shelf  of  rocks  encircles  the  foreground,  by 
which  the  theatre  of  action  is  divided  into  pit  and  boxes.  Some 
women  and  children  having  descended  unadvisedly  into  the  pit, 
are  helping  each  other  out  of  it  again,  with  marked  precipitation. 
A  prudent  person  of  rank  has  taken  a  front  seat  in  the  boxes,  — 
crosses  his  legs,  leans  his  head  on  his  hand,  and  contemplates 
the  proceedings  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur.  Two  attendants 
stand  in  graceful  attitudes  behind  him,  and  two  more  walk  away 
under  the  trees,  conversing  on  general  subjects. 

2.  Worship  of  the  Golden  Calf.  The  scene  is  nearly  the  same 
as  that  of  the  St.  George;  but,  in  order  better  to  express  the 
desert  of  Sinai,  the  river  is  much  larger,  and  the  tree  and  vege- 
tation softer.  Two  people,  uninterested  in  the  idolatrous  cere- 
monies, are  rowing  in  a  pleasure  boat  on  the  river.  The  calf 
is  about  sixteen  inches  long  (perhaps  we  ought  to  give  Claude 
credit  for  remembering  that  it  was  made  of  ear-rings,  though  he 
might  as  well  have  inquired  how  large  Egyptian  ear-rings  were). 
Aaron  has  put  it  on  a  handsome  pillar,  under  which  five  people 
are  dancing,  and  twenty-eight,  with  several  children,  worship- 
ping. Refreshments  for  the  dancers  are  provided  in  four  large 
vases  under  a  tree  on  the  left,  presided  over  by  a  dignified  person 


2i8  REVIEWS  AyO  CRITICISMS 

holding  u  iloc;  in  a  leash.  Under  the  distant  group  of  trees 
appears  Moses,  conducted  by  some  younger  personage  (Nadab 
or  Abihu).  This  younger  j^ersonage  holds  up  his  hands,  and 
Moses,  in  the  way  usually  ex|5ected  of  him,  breaks  the  tables 
of  the  law,  which  arc  as  large  as  an  ordinary  octavo  volume. 

I  need  not  i)roceed  farther,  for  any  reader  of  sense  or  ordinary 
powers  of  thought  can  thus  examine  the  subjects  of  Claude,  one 
by  one,  for  himself.  We  may  quit  him  with  these  few  final 
statements  concerning  him. 

The  admiration  of  his  works  was  legitimate,  so  far  as  it  re- 
garded their  sunlight  effects  and  their  graceful  details.  It  was 
base,  in  so  far  as  it  in\olved  irreverence  both  for  the  deeper 
powers  of  nature,  and  carelessness  as  to  conception  of  subject. 
Large  admiration  of  Claude  is  wholly  impossible  in  any  period 
of  national  vigor  in  art.  He  may  by  such  tenderness  as  he 
possesses,  and  by  the  very  fact  of  his  banishing  painfulness, 
exercise  considerable  influence  over  certain  classes  of  minds; 
but  this  influence  is  almost  exclusively  hurtful  to  them. 

Nevertheless,  on  account  of  such  small  sterling  qualities  as 
they  possess,, and  of  their  general  pleasantness,  as  well  as  their 
importance  in  the  history  of  art,  genuine  Claudes  must  always 
possess  a  considerable  value,  either  as  drawing-room  ornaments 
or  museum  relics.  They  may  be  ranked  with  fine  pieces  of 
China  manufacture,  and  other  agreeable  curiosities,  of  which 
the  price  depends  on  the  rarity  rather  than  the  merit,  yet  always 
on  a  merit  of  a  certain  low  kind. 


I.     G.   EDITORIALS 
EAST  AND   WESTi 

Once  again  the  stimulating  contrast  of  the  very  new  with  the 
very  old  which  the  Far  East  presents,  is  thrust  forcibly  upon  our 
minds.  On  Thursday  last  week  the  Dowager  Empress  of  Japan 
died  in  the  Numadzu  Palace.  Next  day  the  lifeless  body  made 
its  State  entry  into  Tokyo  with  the  same  pomp  and  circumstance 
accorded  to  living  majesty.  It  is  not  befitting  for  a  member  of 
the  Imperial  House  to  meet  death  outside  the  capital ;  and  when 
death  visits  one  of  them  beyond  the  walls,  custom  immemorial 
prescribes  that  the  corpse  shall  be  treated  as  a  living  person  until 
it  has  been  brought  within  the  precincts  where  tradition  ordains 
that  Royalty  may  die.  There  is  something  magnificent  in  an 
etiquette  which  can  ignore  death  itself  —  something,  too,  quite 
inconceivable  to  our  Western  modes  of  thought.  The  whole 
Japanese  people  do  homage  to  the  amazing  convention.  In  the 
Palace  where  the  Empress  had  died  her  dead  body  gave  farewell 
audiences.  On  its  arrival  at  Tokyo,  Princes  and  nobles,  Min- 
isters and  officials,  attended  to  receive  it  as  though  it  lived.  It 
was  driven  through  the  streets  at  a  trot  in  the  same  carriage  and 
with  the  same  escort.  The  same  troops  lined  the  route  and  the 
same  masses  of  people  watched  the  procession  on  its  way.  Only 
their  unbroken  silence,  as  the  State  coach  passed  in  the  moon- 
light with  its  drawn  blinds,  showed  that  they  knew  the  grim 
burden  that  it  bore.  Then  came  the  most  dreadful  part  of  the 
strange  ceremonial.  At  the  door  of  the  Imperial  Palace  the 
living  Empress  had  to  welcome  as  yet  alive  the  poor  remains  of 
her  dead  relative.  The  function  was  not  yet  done.  The  corpse 
must  be  escorted  into  its  apartments  and  put  into  possession  of 

1  From  the  London  Times  (Weekly  Edition),  April  17,  1914. 
219 


220  EDITORIALS 

them.  Then,  and  not  till  then,  was  it  permissible  to  proclaim 
what  the  world  knew,  and  to  atknowledj^e  that  the  Dowager 
Empress  was  no  more.  Within  the  Palace  it  wiis  etifjuette  for 
her  to  have  died. 

Like  the  messages  which  the  most  advanced  of  Chinese  Re- 
publicans delivered  at  the  Imjierial  tombs,  like  the  attribution 
which  Japanese  heroes  made  of  their  successes  in  the  war  to  the 
virtues  of  the  reigning  Emperor  and  of  his  sacred  ancestors,  like 
the  declarations  of  the  Emperor  himself  when  the  Constitution 
was  established,  and  like  the  rites  at  his  burial,  this  grim  yet 
impressive  ceremony  reveals  how  immense  is  the  gulf  between 
the  thoughts  of  the  East  and  of  the  West.  The  news  of  the 
Empress's  illness  or  death  was  sent  by  telephone.  It  was  at 
the  railway  station  that  the  great  officers  of  State  went  through 
the  ghastly  form  of  pav'ing  to  the  dead  the  homage  proper  to  the 
living.  The  Ministers  who  w^ere  present  belong  to  one  of 
the  most  enlightened  and  progressive  Governments  in  the 
world.  The  troops  which  escorted  the  corpse  are  amongst  the 
first  and  most  highly  trained  of  modern  soldiers.  In  every  detail 
of  the  story,  as  our  Tokyo  correspondent  tells  it,  the  most 
modern  of  the  material  discoveries  of  the  West  come  sharply 
into  contact  with  these  customs  of  a  civilization  going  back 
six-and-twenty  centuries.  The  convention  that  members  of 
the  Imperial  House  must  not  die  except  within  the  appointed 
area  is  doubtless  connected  with  the  cardinal  doctrine  of  Japan- 
ese religion  and  of  Japanese  patriotism,  that  the  Emperor  is 
the  descendant  of  the  gods,  who  sits  upon  "the  throne  of  a 
lineal  succession  unbroken  for  ages  eternal,"  and  that  to  his 
\-irtues  and  the  virtues  of  his  ancestors  the  prosperity  and  the 
glory  of  the  Empire  are  due.  That  is  the  faith  upon  which  the 
greatness  of  Japan  and  of  her  people  is  built.  The  Emperor 
rules  by  divine  right  in  a  sense  very  diflferent,  and  far  more 
personal,  than  ever  was  claimed  by  the  proudest  of  Christian 
Kings.  The  right  is  still  freely  and  fully  acknowledged  by  the 
immense  majority  of  his  subjects.  The  unanimity  with  which 
all  classes  have  agreed  in  supporting  the  strange  fiction  that  the 
dead  yet  lived,  indicates   how  general    the  acknowledgment 


A    VICIOUS  PROPOSAL  221 

still  is,  and  how  universal  the  obedience  of  Japan  to  received 
tradition.  But  the  question  inevitably  presents  itself  how  long 
these  beliefs  and  feelings  can  resist  unmodified  the  impact  of 
Western  learning  and  of  Western  habits  of  thought.  That  they 
must  be  affected  by  the  new  conception  of  all  things  which  this 
learning  is  daily  spreading  in  Japan  amongst  thousands  of  keen 
intellects  seems  certain.  How  they  will  be  affected,  what  form 
they  may  ultimately  adopt,  what  action  in  their  altered  form 
they  may  exercise  on  the  mind  of  Asia,  and  what  reaction  on 
the  mind  of  the  West,  are  amongst  the  greatest  problems  of  the 
future.  We  make  no  attempt  to  approach  them  even  from 
afar.  We  only  note  the  startling  ceremonial  of  last  week  as  a 
reminder  that  one  of  the  most  civilized  and  most  brilliant  nations 
of  the  world  is  passing  through  a  pregnant  phase  in  its  devel- 
opment. 

A  VICIOUS   PROPOSAL! 

Nothing  worse  in  the  form  of  legislation  has  been  authorita- 
tively proposed  for  a  long  while  than  the  amendment  to  the 
Army  Appropriation  Bill  which  would  forbid  any  army  officer 
to  serve  as  chief  of  staff  unless  he  shall  have  served  ten  years 
as  a  commissioned  officer  of  the  line  with  rank  below  that  of 
brigadier-general.  This  amendment  did  not  appear,  as  we 
understand  it,  when  the  Army  Appropriation  Bill  was  originally 
before  either  house,  but  was  brought  forth  only  after  the  bill 
was  submitted  to  the  Conference  Committee  of  both  houses. 
There  are  four  reasons  why  such  an  amendment  should  be  re- 
garded as  pernicious.  In  the  first  place,  such  a  piece  of  legis- 
lation ought  to  be  offered  on  its  merits.  When  a  vital  matter 
of  this  sort  is  presented  as  the  rider  of  an  appropriation  bill, 
it  may  be  assumed  to  be  of  the  sort  that  cannot  stand  examina- 
tion or  debate.  When  legislators  make  it  necessary  to  imperil 
a  great  appropriation  bill  in  order  to  defeat  a  special  proposal 
of  this  kind,  it  means  that  they  are  depending  for  success,  not 

'  The  Outlook,  June  8,  1912.     (Vol.  CI,  p.  279.) 


2  22  EDITORIALS 

upon  the  merits  of  tlu-  hill,  t)ut  upon  the  necessities  of  the  Gov- 
ernment. In  the  second  place,  this  special  amenfiment  bears 
all  the  earmarks  of  "personal  ie<^isIation."  The  present  Chief 
•1  Staff,  Major-Gcncrai  Leonard  Wood,  did  not  serve  ten  years 
as  commissioned  officer  below  the  rank  of  brij^adier-general. 
He  was  made  Brigadier-General  of  the  United  States  Army  in 
February,  igoi,  by  President  McKinley.  In  the  course  of  his 
duties  he  has  incurred  the  enmity  of  men  of  influence.  If  this 
amendment  was  not  devised  to  legislate  him  out  of  office,  it 
has  all  the  signs  of  having  been  devised  to  do  so.  Of  course 
any  measure  which  is  designed  to  make  use  of  Congress  as  the 
means  of  serving  personal  grudges  should  not  be  tolerated  for 
a  moment.  In  the  third  place,  this  provision  will  impair  the 
efficiency  of  the  army.  Not  only  would  it  legislate  out  of  office 
the  present  Chief  of  Staff,  but  it  would  stand  as  an  obstacle  to 
the  appointment  of  men  who  might  on  occasions  be  the  most 
competent  for  the  position.  In  a  statement  which  Mr.  Stim- 
son,  Secretary  of  War,  has  made,  it  is  asserted  that  such  a  pro- 
vision "would  have  rendered  ineligible  for  service  as  Chief  of 
Staff  every  one  except  four  of  the  nineteen  generals  who  have 
served  as  Chief  of  the  American  army  since  General  Washing- 
ton. It  would  have  disqualified  General  Winfield  Scott  of  the 
old  army,  and  would  also  have  disqualified  Generals  Sheridan, 
McClellan,  McPherson,  Meade,  Warren,  Halleck,  Schofield, 
O.  O.  Howard,  and  Horace  Porter,  among  others  in  the  Union 
army  of  the  Civil  War;  Robert  E.  Lee,  Stonewall  Jackson, 
Beauregard,  Forrest,  and  Joe  Wheeler  of  the  Confederacy. 
General  Grant  would  barely  have  escaped  its  restriction  by  one 
year's  service,  and  General  Sherman  by  two  months.  Coming 
down  to  modern  times,  it  permanently  disqualifies  practically 
the  entire  engineer  corps  —  the  high  honor  men  of  West  Point. 
It  disqualifies,  for  example.  General  Goethals  and  all  of  his 
assistants  on  the  Panama  Canal ;  General  Crozier,  the  Chief 
of  Ordnance ;  General  Funston,  General  Francis  V.  Greene,  and 
many  other  officers."  In  the  fourth  place,  —  this  in  some  re- 
spects is  the  most  serious  of  all,  —  the  provision  is  a  suggestion 
that  Congress  should  encroach  upon  the  authority  of  the  Presi- 


THE  NATION'S  PLEDGE  223 

dent  of  the  United  States,  who,  by  the  supreme  law  of  the  land, 
the  Constitution,  is  the  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Army. 
Congress  should  not  even  entertain  such  a  proposition. 


THE   NATION'S   PLEDGE  1 

The  Clayton-Bulwer  treaty  was  a  convention  to  define  the 
joint  policy  of  the  United  States  and  Great  Britain  "with  refer- 
ence to  any  means  of  communication  by  ship-canal  which  may 
be  constructed  between  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific  Oceans  by  way 
of  the  River  San  Juan  de  Nicaragua  and  either  or  both  the 
Lakes  of  Nicaragua  or  Managua  to  any  port  or  place  on  the 
Pacific  Ocean." 

This  treaty,  which  was  ratified  by  the  Senate  May  22,  1850, 
provided  that  — 

The  Governments  of  the  United  States  and  Great  Britain  hereby 
declare  that  neither  the  one  nor  the  other  will  ever  obtain  or  main- 
tain for  itself  any  exclusive  control  over  said  ship-canal ;  agreeing 
that  neither  will  ever  erect  nor  maintain  any  fortifications  commanding 
the  same  or  in  the  vicinity  thereof,  or  occupy,  or  fortify,  or  colonize,  or 
assume  or  exercise  any  dominion  over  Nicaragua,  Costa  Rica,  the 
Mosquito  Coast,  or  any  part  of  Central  America. 

If  the  treaty  had  stopped  there,  the  United  States  would 
have  been  spared  much  controversy  and  vexation ;  but  it  did 
not  stop  there.  In  their  anxiety  to  extend  the  general  prin- 
ciples of  this  treaty  to  every  possible  Isthmian  route  between 
the  Atlantic  and  Pacific,  and  thereby  prevent  interference  on 
the  part  of  other  governments,  the  American  and  British  di- 
plomatists included  in  the  convention  a  further  provision  that : — 

The  Governments  of  the  United  States  and  Great  Britain,  having 
not  only  desired,  in  entering  into  this  convention,  to  accomplish  a 
particular  object,  but  also  to  establish  a  general  principle,  they  hereby 
agree  to  extend  their  protection,  by  treaty  stipulations,  to  any  other 
practicable  communications,  whether  by  canal  or  railway,   across 

>  The  (New  York)  World,  March  18,  1914. 


224  EDITORIALS 

the  Isthmus  which  connects  North  and  South  America,  and  especially 
to  the  interoceanic  communications,  should  the  same  prove  to  be 
practicable,  whether  by  canal  or  railway,  which  are  now  proposed  to 
be  established  by  the  way  of  Tehuanlepec  or  Panama. 

This  treaty  was  hailed  at  the  time  as  a  notable  victory  for 
American  diplomacy.  It  ended  all  American  misgivings  as  to 
the  objects  of  the  British  policy  on  the  Mosquito  Coast,  and  it 
was  regarded  as  more  favorable  to  American  than  to  British 
interests. 

The  United  States  was  not  prepared  to  build  a  canal,  and  it 
was  well  satisfied  to  have  any  canal  that  might  be  built  subject 
to  the  joint  protection  of  the  two  English-speaking  nations. 

After  ratification  the  treaty  went  to  sleep,  and  for  many 
years  neither  the  United  States  nor  Great  Britain  manifested 
further  interest  in  the  subject  of  a  trans-Isthmian  canal  except 
in  an  academic  way. 

Finally  de  Lesseps  appeared  upon  the  scene,  and  the  ques- 
tion became  acute  again.  Hayes,  who  was  then  President,  de- 
clared that  any  canal  ought  to  be  under  American  control  and 
the  line  of  that  canal  should  be  considered  "a  part  of  the  coast- 
line of  the  United  States."  A  House  committee  reported  a  resolu- 
tion March  8,  1880,  that  the  United  States  was  entitled  to  control 
any  Isthmian  canal  and  authorizing  the  President  to  terminate 
any  treaty  conflicting  with  that  principle.  The  resolution  was 
called  up  for  the  second  time  March  3,  1881,  and  failed  to  pass. 
Congress  thus  refused  to  abrogate  the  Clayton-Bulwer  treaty. 

Garfield  modified  Hayes's  coast-line  dictum  into  an  assertion 
that  we  did  not  seek  "peculiar  or  commercial  privileges  in  any 
commercial  route."  Frelinghuysen,  who  was  Arthur's  Secre- 
tary of  State,  undertook  to  put  the  Clayton-Bulwer  treaty  to 
the  test  and  negotiated  a  treaty  with  Nicaragua  for  the  con- 
struction of  a  canal  entirely  under  American  control.  One  of 
Cleveland's  first  official  acts  after  he  became  President  in  1885 
was  to  withdraw  this  treaty  from  the  Senate. 

The  Spanish-American  war  made  the  canal  question  a  vital 
issue  in  American  politics,  and  John  Hay,  then  Secretary  of 
State,  undertook  to  bring  about  a  modification  of  the  Clayton- 


THE  NATION'S  PLEDGE  225 

Bulwer  treaty.  The  first  Hay-Pauncefote  treaty  was  amended 
by  the  Senate,  much  to  Secretary  Hay's  mortification.  A  new 
compromise  treaty  was  then  negotiated  "to  facilitate  the  con- 
struction of  a  ship-canal  to  connect  the  Atlantic  and  Pacific 
Oceans  by  whatever  route  may  be  considered  expedient,"  and  to 
"remove  any  objection  which  may  arise  out  of  the  convention 
of  the  19th  of  April,  1850,  commonly  known  as  the  Clayton- 
Bulwer  treaty,  to  the  construction  of  such  canal  under  the 
auspices  of  the  Government  of  the  United  States,  without  im- 
pairing the  'general  principle'  of  neutralization  established  in 
Article  VIII  of  that  convention." 

This  treaty,  which  was  received  as  another  brilliant  achieve- 
ment in  American  diplomacy,  provides  that  — 

The  canal  shall  be  free  and  open  to  the  vessels  of  commerce  and  of 
war  of  all  nations  observing  these  rules,  on  terms  of  entire  equality, 
so  that  there  shall  be  no  discrimination  against  any  such  nation,  or 
its  citizens  or  subjects,  in  respect  of  the  conditions  or  charges  of  traffic, 
or  otherwise.  Such  conditions  and  charges  of  traffic  shall  be  just 
and  equitable. 

If  ever  language  was  clear,  this  language  is  clear.  If  this 
clause  does  not  mean  what  it  says,  it  means  nothing.  Indeed, 
the  whole  history  of  the  treaty  relations  between  the  United 
States  and  Great  Britain  in  respect  to  an  Isthmian  canal  goes 
to  prove  that  such  a  provision,  even  though  it  were  as  clumsily 
drawn  as  this  provision  is  plainly  drawn,  could  not  mean  any- 
thing else.  Until  the  coastwise-shipping  monopoly  saw  a 
chance  to  grab  a  million  dollars  or  so  a  year  at  the  expense  of 
the  National  Treasury  and  of  the  national  honor,  nobody  ever 
pretended  that  it  meant  anything  else. 

Mr.  Hay  is  dead  and  Lord  Pauncefote  is  dead ;  but  Joseph  H. 
Choate,  who  as  American  Ambassador  to  Great  Britain  helped 
negotiate  the  treaty,  is  still  alive.  No  other  living  man  is  so 
well  qualified  to  give  testimony  as  to  the  meaning  of  this  pro- 
vision, and  this  is  what  Mr.  Choate  says :  — 

As  the  lips  of  both  these  diplomatists  and  great  patriots,  who  were 
true  to  their  own  countries  and  each  regardful  of  the  rights  of  the  other, 
Q 


2  2t)  EDITORIALS 

arc  scaled  in  death,  I  think  that  it  is  proper  that  I  should  say  what  I 
think.  l)oth  of  thcni,  il"  they  were  here  to-day.  would  say  —  that  the 
clause  in  the  i'anama  Toll  act  exempting  coastwise  American  shipping 
from  the  payment  of  tolls  is  in  direct  violation  of  the  treaty. 

I  venture  to  say  that  in  the  whole  course  of  the  negotiations  of  this 
particular  treaty,  no  claim,  no  suggestion,  was  made  that  there  should 
be  any  exemption  of  anybody. 

The  whole  ci\nlized  world  is  against  the  United  States  on  this 
i.ssue.  As  Senator  Lodge  says,  we  are  threatened  with  the 
stigma  of  an  "outlaw  Nation"  which  has  no  respect  for  its 
solemn  word  or  its  solemn  pledges.  The  President  of  the 
United  States,  in  urging  Congress  to  repeal  the  special  canal 
privileges  granted  to  the  coastwise  monopoly,  has  said :  — 

I  ask  this  of  you  in  support  of  the  foreign  policy  of  the  Administra- 
tion. I  shall  not  know  how  to  deal  with  matters  of  even  greater 
delicacy  and  nearer  consequence  if  you  do  not  grant  it  to  me  in  un- 
grudging measure. 

In  the  face  of  the  record  and  of  such  a  solemn  appeal,  Lewis 
NLxon  writes  to  The  World  to  say  that  he  has  "never  seen  a 
sincere  or  logical  argument  to  uphold  the  Hay-Pauncefote  pro- 
visions against  remission  of  tolls."  Senator  O'Gorman,  who  is 
helping  the  coastwise  monopoly  keep  its  hand  in  the  National 
Treasury,  has  even  forgotten  that  he  was  once  eminent  as  a 
Judge,  and  falls  back  upon  the  pettifogging  argument  that  — 

The  word  "vessels"  as  used  in  the  treaty  applies  solely  to  ships  in 
the  overseas  trade.  It  does  not  apply  and  was  never  intended  to 
apply  to  the  coastwise  trade. 

In  other  words,  a  vessel  is  a  vessel  if  it  does  not  get  a  sub- 
sidy, but  it  is  a  raft  or  a  derrick  or  a  pike-pole  if  it  does  get  a 
subsidy. 

The  Constitution  provides  that  all  treaties  made  under  the 
authority  of  the  United  States  shall  be  part  of  "the  supreme  law 
of  the  land."  But  Congress  has  recognized  a  higher  law  than 
this  supreme  law.     That  higher  law  is  in  the  pockets  of  the 


THE  NATION'S  PLEDGE  227 

coastwise-shipping  monopoly.  In  order  to  give  a  million  dollars 
a  year  to  men  who  are  already  protected  against  every  form  of 
foreign  competition,  Congress  undertakes  to  violate  a  treaty 
and  break  the  pledge  of  the  Nation.  The  Democratic  part  of 
Congress  which  upholds  this  tolls  exemption  is  also  turning  its 
back  upon  the  fundamental  principle  of  its  party  and  voting 
special  privileges  to  a  special  interest  at  the  expense  both  of 
the  public  Treasury  and  the  public  faith.  And  to  what  pur- 
pose ?  Not  to  build  up  an  American  merchant  marine,  for  not 
a  cent's  worth  of  privilege  is  given  to  ?.ny  American  ship  in  the 
foreign  trade.  Every  ship  flying  the  American  flag  which 
goes  through  the  Panama  Canal  bound  to  any  foreign  port 
must  pay  the  same  tells  as  a  British  ship  or  a  German  ship  or 
a  French  ship. 

The  subsidy  is  all  for  the  shipping  that  has  no  foreign  com- 
petition. The  treaty-breaking  is  all  for  a  monopoly  that  has 
no  foreign  competition.  The  honor  of  the  Nation  and  the  his- 
toric principles  of  the  Democratic  party  are  alike  flouted  for 
the  profit  of  a  few  coastwise  carriers,  while  95,000,000  American 
people  are  made  to  pay  the  bill  in  money  and  to  pay  the  bill  in 
international  enmity. 

The  United  States  built  the  canal  subject  to  the  provisions 
of  the  Hay-Pauncefote  treaty  and  it  is  bound  by  those  pro- 
visions. There  is  no  external  power  or  tribunal  which  can  com- 
pel this  country  to  respect  its  pledges,  but  the  pledges  are  as 
valid  as  if  we  were  the  weakest  instead  of  the  strongest  of 
nations. 

This  country  began  its  national  existence  by  proclaiming  in 
the  Declaration  of  Independence  its  "decent  respect  for  the 
opinions  of  mankind."  It  must  still  maintain  that  decent 
respect  for  the  opinions  of  mankind.  Whatever  Congress  may 
think  or  whatever  Congress  may  do  at  the  behest  of  a  monop- 
oly's lobby,  the  American  people  are  a  people  who  want  to 
keep  the  faith. 


2  28  EDITORIALS 

WIRELESS   IX   RAILROAD   SERVICE  » 

The  successful  use  of  wireless  telegraphy  in  communicating 
with  moving  trains  on  the  Delaware,  Lackawanna,  and  Western 
Railroad  has  been  much  exploited  in  the  public  prints,  but  the 
full  significance  of  the  wireless  in  railroad  service  has  been  over- 
looked. While  communication  with  trains  is  the  most  spectac- 
ular feature  of  the  work,  the  value  of  having  a  system  of  com- 
munication independent  of  interruptions  by  weather  is  very 
important.  In  a  recent  sleet  storm,  for  example,  in  the  Eastern 
section  of  the  country,  when  wire  ser\'ice  was  interrupted,  the 
Lackawanna  was  able  to  handle  its  messages  satisfactorily 
through  its  fixed  wireless  stations.  One  other  point  that  has 
not  been  sufiiciently  emphasized  is  the  economy  that  will  result 
in  transmitting  messages  to  heavy  freight  trains  without  the 
necessity  of  bringing  them  to  a  stop.  The  savftig  in  time,  in 
wear  and  tear  on  equipment,  and  in  power  is  evident.  The 
latest  development  in  the  Lackawanna's  experiments  is  in 
setting  signals  by  wireless.  While  it  is  unofficially  reported 
that  the  experiments  have  had  some  success,  full  details  as  to 
the  results  have  not  yet  been  given  out.  It  is  apparent,  there- 
fore, that,  far  from  being  a  toy  or  a  curiosity,  wireless  holds 
forth  great  possibilities  in  railway  service. 

THE  ABSORPTION   OF  THE  INDIAN  2 

Last  week  occurred  an  event  v/hich,  picturesquely  celebrated 
at  Muskogee  and  Tulsa,  Oklahoma,  may  be  regarded  as  a  land- 
mark in  the  record  of  our  Indian  relations :  the  Cherokee  Nation 
dissolving  tribal  relationships.  Since  the  war  in  the  Carolinas 
a  decade  before  the  Revolution,  the  Cherokees  have  been  peace- 
ful, industrious,  and  more  and  more  civilized.  These  41,000 
Indians  hold  nearly  5,000,000  acres.  One  of  their  blood  sits 
in   the  Senate;    they  have  long  maintained  a  constitutional 

'  The  Engineering  Record,  January  24,  1914. 
*  From  The  (New  York)  Nation,  July  9, 1914. 


THE  ABSORPTION  OF   THE  INDIAN  229 

government  and  native  newspapers;  and  they  have  produced 
more  teachers  than  all  the  other  tribes  combined.  Their  chief 
title  to  notice  has,  perhaps,  been  in  the  alphabet  invented  by 
Sequoyah  ninety  years  ago,  and  its  effect  on  their  development. 
Readers  of  The  Gilded  Age  will  remember  the  frequent  proverbs 
in  this  unique  charactery  which  Mark  Twain  included  among 
his  polyglot  chapter  headings.  With  the  end  of  the  Nation 
comes  the  announcement  that  Oklahoma  will  commemorate 
Sequoyah  in  Statuary  Hall  at  Washington. 

This  is  the  first  large  achievement  of  the  Government  in  its 
policy  of  bringing  about  the  cessation  of  all  tribes  as  individual 
entities  —  the  first  policy  worthy  of  the  name  it  has  had.  The 
Cherokees  were  the  last  of  the  Five  Nations  to  enter  into  a 
treaty  to  that  end ;  and  the  record  of  the  contentious  lawsuits 
involved  in  completing  the  transaction  is,  with  the  tragic  his- 
tory of  their  early  deportation,  an  epitome  of  much  of  the  in- 
justice of  the  United  States  towards  its  wards.  The  other 
Nations,  Creek  and  Chickasaw,  Seminole  and  Choctaw,  which 
suffered  equally  from  an  "independence"  in  Indian  Territory 
that  attracted  every  outlaw  in  the  Southwest,  can  rejoice  that 
they  also  will  shortly  pass.  It  was  the  greed  of  Georgia  for  gold 
discovered  on  native  lands  which  drove  the  Cherokees,  in  spite 
of  the  Supreme  Court,  on  a  march  that  cost  thousands  of  lives. 
Little  by  little,  after  the  Civil  War,  they  were  forced  to  part 
with  their  holdings,  the  most  important  sale  being  of  the 
8,000,000-acre  Cherokee  Outlet  to  the  United  States  in  1892, 
for  $1  an  acre  and  a  settlement  of  long-standing  charges  for  the 
cost  of  their  removal  westward  in  the  'thirties.  This  settlement, 
through  Congressional  delay,  dragged  for  thirteen  years,  when 
the  Court  of  Claims  found  the  United  States  Hablefor  $4,500,000  ; 
and  litigation  between  various  branches  of  the  Indians,  and  over 
huge  fees  charged  by  white  lawyers,  has  lasted  until  a  few 
months  ago.  The  clearing  up  of  their  affairs  and  the  conver- 
sion of  all  tribal  property  into  cash  to  be  distributed,  thus  sees 
a  measure  of  final  justice  done  a  people  that  once  claimed  a  vast 
empire.  It  is  a  first  goal  reached  on  the  road  marked  out 
when,  in  1887,  Congress,  abandoning  the  wretched  reservation 


2^0  EDITORIALS 

iik-a,  enacted  the  Land  Allotment  law,  authorizing  the  liivision 
of  Indian  lands  into  individual  allotments,  each  to  be  held  in 
Government  trust  until  an  allottee  was  felt  competent  to  receive 
full  letters  patent.  Such  patents,  carrying  citizenship,  have 
been  issued  to  each  member  of  the  tribe. 


NATIONALISM  AND   PEACE  ' 

The  American  people  is  not  terrified  by  the  Slavonic  bogey. 
We  do  not  concede  that  Germany,  Austria,  or  any  other  Western 
Power  is  charged  with  the  responsibility  of  defeating  Slavonic 
aspiration  to  national  form  and  expression.  Not  peril,  but 
safety,  comes  of  achieved  nationality.  Italy,  distraught  and 
divided,  Germany,  a  thing  of  shreds  and  patches,  Ireland, 
thwarted  and  discordant,  Alsace-Lorraine,  Poland,  Finland,  and 
Bosnia,  wrenched  from  their  congenial  associations  —  these,  by 
reason  of  their  irmer  instability,  threaten  the  peace  and  happi- 
ness of  Europe.  It  has  proved  difficult  enough  for  powerful 
nations  to  Romanize,  Anglicize,  Germanize,  or  exterminate 
scattered  and  uncultivated  populations ;  small  areas  detached 
from  organized  civilizations  have  proved  entirely  indigestible. 
Germany  has  not  digested  either  Poland  or  Alsace ;  England 
is  confessing  its  inability  to  assimilate  Ireland.  The  Russian- 
ization  of  the  non-Slavonic  Europe  is  an  utter  impossibility,  even 
if  there  were  the  least  danger  of  its  being  attempted. 

If  national  aspiration  is  something  to  be  heeded  as  legitimate 
and  wholesome,  the  race  that  aspires  to  unity  must  by  the  same 
token  respect  the  unity  of  other  states  and  nations.  If  the 
Teuton  accepts  and  welcomes  the  integrity  of  a  Slavonic  state, 
precisely  the  same  principle  protects  him  from  arbitrary  aggres- 
sion. The  conduct  of  Germany  is  resented  because,  having 
gloriously  vindicated  her  own  nationality,  she  has  in  these  latter 
days  been  content  to  play  the  part  that  Austria  played  in  Italy 
and  in  Germany  itself.  America  refuses  to  believe  that  if  the 
achievement  of  Teutonic  nationality  is  a  blessing,  the  recogni- 

»  From  The  Nation,  August  27,  1914. 


NATIONALISM  AND  PEACE 


231 


tion  of  Slavonic  self-consciousness  is  a  crime.  German  diplo- 
macy attached  itself  to  an  obsolete  and  impossible  object  when 
it  undertook  blindly  to  sustain  Austria  in  its  historic  obstructive 
role.  It  discredited  its  own  spirit  when  it  permitted  the  annexa- 
tion of  an  unwilling  Bosnia  and  sanctioned  the  attempted  hu- 
miliation of  Servia.  Would  not  an  enlightened  and  modern 
diplomacy  seek  rather  to  discern  and  to  work  with  the  significant 
and  permanent  currents  of  feeling  that  have  expressed  them- 
selves in  modern  Italy  and  modern  Germany  ?  Assuredly  this 
were  a  nobler  and  more  fruitful  task  than  that  of  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  snatch  unnatural  and  perishable  advantages  such 
as  go  with  the  annexation  of  a  sullen  and  alien  people.  The 
most  enduring  fame  of  Lord  John  Russell  resulted  from  the  steps 
he  took  to  make  a  united  Italy  possible.  Not  until  the  diplo- 
mats of  the  Continent  conceive  their  function  along  similar 
lines  will  the  nations  of  Europe  lay  aside  their  fatal  jealousies. 


II.    ARGUMENT 
A.    ELEMENTS 

I.    Introduction,  Including  Special  Issues 

THE  THREE  HYPOTHESES   RESPECTING    THE  HIS- 
TORY OF    NATURE! 

T.   H.  Huxley 

We  live  in  and  form  part  of  a  system  of  things  of  immense 
diversity  and  perplexity,  which  we  call  Nature ;  and  it  is  a 
matter  of  the  deepest  interest  to  all  of  us  that  we  should  form 
just  conceptions  of  the  constitution  of  that  system  and  of  its 
past  history.  With  relation  to  this  universe,  man  is,  in  extent, 
little  more  than  a  mathematical  point ;  in  duration  but  a  fleet- 
ing shadow ;  he  is  a  mere  reed  shaken  in  the  winds  of  force. 
But  as  Pascal  long  ago  remarked,  although  a  mere  reed,  he  is 
a  thinking  reed ;  and  in  virtue  of  that  wonderful  capacity  of 
thought,  he  has  the  power  of  framing  for  himself  a  symbolic 
conception  of  the  universe,  which,  although  doubtless  highly 
imperfect  and  inadequate  as  a  picture  of  the  great  whole,  is 
yet  sufficient  to  serve  him  as  a  chart  for  the  guidance  of  his 
practical  affairs.  It  has  taken  long  ages  of  toilsome  and  often 
fruitless  labor  to  enable  men  to  look  steadily  at  the  shifting 
scenes  of  the  phantasmagoria  of  Nature,  to  notice  what  is 
fLxed  among  her  fluctuations,  and  what  is  regular  among  her 
apparent  irregularities;  and  it  is  only  comparatively  lately, 
within  the  last  few  centuries,  that  the  conception  of  a  universal 
order  and  of  a  defmite  course  of  things,  which  we  term  the 
course  of  Nature,  has  emerged. 

'From  Collected  Essays.  (Vol.  IV;  Science  and  Hebrew  Tradition;  Lectures 
on  Evolution.)     D.  Appleton  and  Company. 

232 


I 


THREE  HYPOTHESES  RESPECTING  HISTORY  OF  NA TURE      233 

But,  once  originated,  the  conception  of  the  constancy  of  the 
order  of  Nature  has  become  the  dominant  idea  of  modern 
thought.  To  any  person  who  is  familiar  with  the  facts  upon 
which  that  conception  is  based,  and  is  competent  to  estimate 
their  significance,  it  has  ceased  to  be  conceivable  that  chance 
should  have  any  place  in  the  universe,  or  that  events  should 
depend  upon  any  but  the  natural  sequence  of  cause  and  effect. 
We  have  come  to  look  upon  the  present  as  the  child  of  the  past 
and  as  the  parent  of  the  future ;  and,  as  we  have  excluded  chance 
from  a  place  in  the  universe,  so  we  ignore,  even  as  a  possibility, 
the  notion  of  any  interference  with  the  order  of  Nature.  What- 
ever may  be  men's  speculative  doctrines,  it  is  quite  certain  that 
every  intelligent  person  guides  his  life  and  risks  his  fortune  upon 
the  belief  that  the  order  of  Nature  is  constant,  and  that  the 
chain  of  natural  causation  is  never  broken. 

In  fact,  no  belief  which  we  entertain  has  so  complete  a  logical 
basis  as  that  to  which  I  have  just  referred.  It  tacitly  under- 
lies every  process  of  reasoning ;  it  is  the  foundation  of  every 
act  of  the  will.  It  is  based  upon  the  broadest  induction,  and 
it  is  verified  by  the  most  constant,  regular,  and  universal  of 
deductive  processes.  But  we  must  recollect  that  any  human 
belief,  however  broad  its  basis,  however  defensible  it  may  seem, 
is,  after  all,  only  a  probable  belief,  and  that  our  widest  and 
safest  generalizations  are  simply  statements  of  the  highest 
degree  of  probability.  Though  we  are  quite  clear  about  the 
constancy  of  the  order  of  Nature,  at  the  present  time,  and  in 
the  present  state  of  things,  it  by  no  means  necessarily  follows 
that  we  are  justified  in  expanding  this  generalization  into  the 
infinite  past,  and  in  denying,  absolutely,  that  there  may  have 
been  a  time  when  Nature  did  not  follow  a  fixed  order,  when 
the  relations  of  cause  and  effect  were  not  definite,  and  when 
extra-natural  agencies  interfered  with  the  general  course  of 
Nature.  Cautious  men  will  allow  that  a  universe  so  different 
from  that  which  we  know  may  have  existed ;  just  as  a  very 
candid  thinker  may  admit  that  a  world  in  which  two  and 
two  do  not  make  four,  and  in  which  two  straight  lines  do  en- 
close a  space,  may  exist.     But  the  same  caution  which  forces 


234  lyTRODLCTION    TO  ARGUMENT 

ihe  admission  of  such  possibilities  demands  a  great  deal  of 
evidence  before  it  recognizes  them  to  be  anything  more  sub- 
stantial. And  when  it  is  asserted  that,  so  many  thousand 
years  ago,  events  occurred  in  a  manner  utterh'  foreign  to  and 
inconsistent  with  the  existing  laws  of  Nature,  men,  who  with- 
out being  particularly  cautious  are  simply  honest  thinkers, 
unwilling  to  deceive  themselves  or  delude  others,  ask  for  trust- 
worthy evidence  of  the  fact. 

Did  things  so  happen  or  did  they  not  ?  This  is  a  historical 
question,  and  one  the  answer  to  which  must  be  sought  in  the 
same  way  as  the  solution  of  any  other  historical  problem. 

So  far  as  I  know,  there  are  only  three  hypotheses  which  ever 
have  been  entertained,  or  which  well  can  be  entertained,  re- 
specting the  past  history  of  Nature.  I  will,  in  the  first  place, 
state  the  hypotheses,  and  then  I  will  consider  what  evidence 
bearing  upon  them  is  in  our  possession,  and  by  what  light  of 
criticism  that  evidence  is  to  be  interpreted. 

Upon  the  first  h>-pothesis  the  assumption  is,  that  phenomena 
of  Nature  similar  to  those  exhibited  by  the  present  world  have 
always  existed ;  in  other  words,  that  the  universe  has  existed, 
from  all  eternity,  in  what  may  be  broadly  termed  its  present 
condition. 

The  second  h}-pothesis  is  that  the  present  state  of  things  has 
had  only  a  limited  duration ;  and  that,  at  some  period  in  the 
past,  a  condition  of  the  world,  essentially  similar  to  that  which 
we  now  know,  came  into  existence,  without  any  precedent  con- 
dition from  which  it  could  have  naturally  proceeded.  The 
assumption  that  successive  states  of  Nature  have  arisen,  each 
without  any  relation  of  natural  causation  to  an  antecedent  state, 
is  a  mere  modification  of  this  second  hypothesis. 

The  third  h^-pothesis  also  assumes  that  the  present  state  of 
things  has  had  but  a  limited  duration  ;  but  it  supposes  that  this 
state  has  been  evolved  by  a  natural  process  from  an  antecedent 
state,  and  that  from  another,  and  so  on  ;  and,  on  this  hypothesis, 
the  attempt  to  assign  any  limit  to  the  series  of  past  changes  is, 
usually,  given  up. 

It  is  so  needful  to  form  clear  and  distinct  notions  of  what  is 


THREE  H  YPOTHESES  RESPECTING  HISTOR  Y  OF  NA  TURE     235 

really  meant  by  each  of  these  hypotheses  that  I  will  ask  you 
to  imagine  what,  according  to  each,  would  have  been  visible  to 
a  spectator  of  the  events  which  constitute  the  history  of  the 
earth.  On  the  first  hypothesis,  how^ever  far  back  in  time  that 
spectator  might  be  placed,  he  would  see  a  world  essentially, 
though  perhaps  not  in  all  its  details,  similar  to  that  which  now 
exists.  The  animals  which  existed  would  be  the  ancestors  ot 
those  which  now  live,  and  similar  to  them ;  the  plants,  in  like 
manner,  would  be  such  as  we  know ;  and  the  mountains,  plains, 
and  waters  would  foreshadow  the  salient  features  of  our  present 
land  and  water.  This  view  was  held  more  or  less  distinctly, 
sometimes  combined  with  the  notion  of  recurrent  cycles  of 
change,  in  ancient  times ;  and  its  influence  has  been  felt  down 
to  the  present  day.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that  it  is  a  hypothesis 
which  is  not  inconsistent  with  the  doctrine  of  Uniformitarian- 
ism,  with  which  geologists  are  familiar.  That  doctrine  was 
held  by  Hutton,  and  in  his  earlier  days  by  Lyell.  Hutton  was 
struck  by  the  demonstration  of  astronomers  that  the  pertur- 
bations of  the  planetary  bodies,  however  great  they  may  be, 
yet  sooner  or  later  right  themselves ;  and  that  the  solar  system 
possesses  a  self-adjusting  power  by  which  these  aberrations  are 
all  brought  back  to  a  mean  condition.  Hutton  imagined  that 
the  like  might  be  true  of  terrestrial  changes ;  although  no  one 
recognized  more  clearly  than  he  the  fact  that  the  dry  land  is 
being  constantly  washed  down  by  rain  and  rivers  and  deposited 
in  the  sea;  and  that  thus,  in  a  longer  or  shorter  time,  the  in- 
equalities of  the  earth's  siirface  must  be  levelled,  and  its  high 
lands  brought  down  to  the  ocean.  But,  taking  into  account 
the  internal  forces  of  the  earth,  which,  upheaving  the  sea- 
bottom,  give  rise  to  new  land,  he  thought  that  these  operations 
of  degradation  and  elevation  might  compensate  each  other; 
and  that  thus,  for  any  assignable  time,  the  general  features  of 
our  planet  might  remain  what  they  are.  And  inasmuch  as, 
under  these  circumstances,  there  need  be  no  limit  to  the  propa- 
gation of  animals  and  plants,  it  is  clear  that  the  consistent 
working  out  of  the  uniform itarian  idea  might  lead  to  the  con- 
ception of  the  eternity  of  the  world.     Not  that  I  mean  to  say 


236  INTRODl'CTIOX    TO  ARGUMENT 

lluil  tillicr  Hutltui  or  l.yrll  luld  this  coiueption  —  assuredly 
not;  they  would  have  been  the  first  to  rejjudiate  it.  Never- 
theless, the  logical  development  of  some  of  their  arguments  tends 
directly  towards  this  hypothesis. 

The  second  hypothesis  supposes  that  the  present  order  of 
things,  at  some  no  very  remote  time,  had  a  sudden  origin,  and 
that  the  world,  such  as  it  now  is,  had  chaos  for  its  phenomenal 
antecedent.  This  is  the  doctrine  which  you  will  find  stated 
most  fully  and  clearly  in  the  immortal  poem  of  John  Milton  — 
the  English  Diviiia  Commcdia  —  "Paradise  Lost."  I  believe 
it  is  largely  to  the  influence  of  that  remarkable  work,  combined 
with  the  daily  teachings  to  which  w'e  have  all  listened  in  our 
childhood,  that  this  hypothesis  owes  its  general  wide  diffusion 
as  one  of  the  current  beliefs  of  English-speaking  people.  If  you 
turn  to  the  seventh  book  of  Paradise  Lost,  you  will  find  there 
stated  the  hypothesis  to  which  I  refer,  which  is  briefly  this : 
That  this  \'isible  universe  of  ours  came  into  existence  at  no 
great  distance  of  time  from  the  present ;  and  that  the  parts  of 
which  it  is  composed  made  their  appearance,  in  a  certain  definite 
order,  in  the  space  of  six  natural  days,  in  such  a  manner  that, 
on  the  first  of  these  days,  light  appeared ;  that  on  the  second, 
the  firmament,  or  sky,  separated  the  waters  above  from  the 
waters  beneath  the  firmament ;  that  on  the  third  day,  the 
waters  drew  away  from  the  dry  land,  and  upon  it  a  varied  vege- 
table life,  similar  to  that  which  now  exists,  made  its  appear- 
ance ;  that  the  fourth  day  was  signalized  by  the  apparition  of 
the  sun,  the  stars,  the  moon,  and  the  planets ;  that  on  the  fifth 
day,  aquatic  animals  originated  within  the  waters ;  that  on 
the  sixth  day,  the  earth  gave  rise  to  our  four-footed  terrestrial 
creatures,  and  to  all  varieties  of  terrestrial  animals  except  birds, 
which  had  appeared  on  the  preceding  day;  and  finally,  that 
man  appeared  upon  the  earth,  and  the  emergence  of  the  uni- 
verse from  chaos  was  finished.  Milton  tells  us,  without  the 
least  ambiguity,  what  a  spectator  of  these  marvellous  occur- 
rences would  have  witnessed.  I  doubt  not  that  his  poem  is 
familiar  to  all  of  you,  but  I  should  like  to  recall  one  passage  to 
your  minds,  in  order  that  I  may  be  justified  in  what  I  have 


THREE  HYPOTHESES  RESPECTING  HISTORY  OF  NA TURE     237 

said  regarding  the  perfectly  concrete,  definite  picture  of  the 
origin  of  the  animal  world  which  Milton  draws.     He  says :  — 

"The  sixth,  and  of  creation  last,  arose 
With  evening  harps  and  matin,  when  God  said, 
'Let  the  earth  bring  forth  soul  living  in  her  kind, 
Cattle  and  creeping  things,  and  beast  of  the  earth, 
Each  in  their  kind  ! '     The  earth  obeyed,  and,  straight 
Opening  her  fertile  womb,  teemed  at  a  birth 
Innumerous  living  creatures,  perfect  forms. 
Limbed  and  full-grown.     Out  of  the  ground  uprose. 
As  from  his  lair,  the  wild  beast,  where  he  wons 
In  forest  wild,  in  thicket,  brake,  or  den ; 
Among  the  trees  in  pairs  they  rose,  they  walked ; 
The  cattle  in  the  fields  and  meadows  green ; 
Those  rare  and  solitary  ;  these  in  flocks 
Pasturing  at  once,  and  in  broad  herds  upsprung. 
The  grassy  clods  now  calved  ;  now  half  appears 
The  tawny  lion,  pawing  to  get  free 
His  hinder  parts  —  then  springs,  as  broke  from  bonds, 
And  rampant  shakes  his  brinded  mane ;   the  ounce, 
The  libbard,  and  the  tiger,  as  the  mole 
Rising,  the  crumbled  earth  above  them  threw 
In  hillocks ;  the  swift  stag  from  underground 
Bore  up  his  branching  head  ;  scarce  from  his  mould 
Behemoth,  biggest  born  of  earth,  upheaved 
His  vastness ;  fleeced  the  flocks  and  bleating  rose 
As  plants ;  ambiguous  between  sea  and  land. 
The  river-horse  and  scaly  crocodile. 
At  once  came  forth  whatever  creeps  the  ground, 
Insect  or  worm." 

There  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  meaning  of  this  statement,  nor 
as  to  what  a  man  of  Milton's  genius  expected  would  have  been 
actually  visible  to  an  eye-witness  of  this  mode  of  origination  of 
living  things. 

The  third  hypothesis,  or  the  hypothesis  of  evolution,  sup- 
poses that,  at  any  comparatively  late  period  of  past  time,  our 
imaginary  spectator  would  meet  with  a  state  of  things  very 
similar  to  that  which  now  obtains ;  but  that  the  likeness  of  the 


2}S  ISTRODUCTIOX    TO  ARGIMEXT 

past  to  the  present  would  gradually  become  less  and  less,  in 
proiK)rtion  to  the  remoteness  of  his  period  of  obserNulion  from 
the  present  day ;  that  the  existing  distribution  of  mountains 
and  plains,  of  rivers  and  seas,  would  show  itself  to  be  the  product 
of  a  slow  process  of  natural  change  operating  ujion  more  and 
more  widely  dilTerent  antecedent  conditions  of  the  mineral 
framework  of  the  earth  ;  until,  at  length,  in  place  of  that  frame- 
work, he  would  behold  only  a  vast  nebulous  mass,  representing 
the  constituents  of  the  sun  and  of  the  planetary  bodies.  Pre- 
ceding the  forms  of  life  which  now  exist,  our  observer  would  see 
animals  and  plants,  not  identical  with  them,  but  like  them, 
increasing  their  differences  with  their  antiquity  and,  at  the 
same  time,  becoming  simpler  and  simpler;  until,  finally,  the 
world  of  life  would  present  nothing  but  that  undifferentiated 
protoplasmic  matter  which,  so  far  as  our  present  knowledge 
goes,  is  the  common  foundation  of  all  vital  activity. 

The  h^-pothesis  of  evolution  supposes  that  in  all  this  vast 
progression  there  would  be  no  breach  of  continuity,  no  point 
at  which  we  could  say  "This  is  a  natural  process,"  and  "This 
is  not  a  natural  process";  but  that  the  whole  might  be  com- 
pared to  that  wonderful  operation  of  development  which  may 
be  seen  going  on  every  day  under  our  eyes,  in  virtue  of  which 
there  arises,  out  of  the  semi-fluid  comparatively  homogeneous 
substance  which  we  call  an  egg,  the  complicated  organization 
of  one  of  the  higher  animals.  That,  in  a  few  words,  is  what  is 
meant  by  the  hypothesis  of  evolution. 

I  have  already  suggested  that,  in  dealing  with  these  three 
hjTDotheses,  in  endeavoring  to  form  a  judgment  as  to  which  of 
them  is  the  more  worthy  of  belief  —  in  which  case  our  condi- 
tion of  mind  should  be  that  suspension  of  judgment  which  is 
so  difRcult  to  all  but  trained  intellects  —  we  should  be  in- 
different to  all  a  priori  considerations.  The  question  is  a  ques- 
tion of  historical  fact.  The  universe  has  come  into  existence 
somehow  or  other,  and  the  problem  is,  whether  it  came  into  exist- 
ence in  one  fashion,  or  whether  it  came  into  existence  in  another. 


THE  CASE  AGAINST   THE  SINGLE   TAX  239 

LETTER    TO    GENERAL    McCLELLAN 

Executive  Mansion, 
Washington,  February  3,  1862. 
Major-General  McClellan. 

My  Dear  Sir  :  You  and  I  have  distinct  and  different  plans 
for  a  movement  of  the  army  of  the  Potomac  —  yours  to  be 
down  the  Chesapeake,  up  the  Rappahannock  to  Urbana,  across 
land  to  the  terminus  of  the  railroad  on  the  York  river ;  mine 
to  move  directly  to  a  point  southwest  of  Manassas. 

If  you  will  give  me  satisfactory  answers  to  the  following 
questions,  I  shall  gladly  yield  my  plan  to  yours. 

First.  Does  not  your  plan  involve  a  greatly  larger  expendi- 
ture of  time  and  money  than  mine  ? 

Second.  Wherein  is  a  victory  more  certain  by  your  plan 
than  mine  ? 

Third.  Wherein  is  a  victory  more  valuable  by  your  plan 
than  mine? 

Fourth.  In  fact,  would  it  not  be  less  valuable  in  this,  that 
it  would  break  no  great  line  of  the  enemy's  communications, 
while  mine  would  ? 

Fifth.  In  case  of  a  disaster,  wotdd  not  a  retreat  be  more 
difficult  by  your  plan  than  mine  ? 

Yours  truly, 

Abraham  Lincoln. 


THE  CASE  AGAINST  THE  SINGLE  TAX^ 

Alvin  Saunders  Johnson 

The   Single-Tax  programme  —  it  is   almost  superfluous   to 

1         state  —  contemplates  the  substitution  of  a  land-tax  for  all  the 

miscellaneous  taxes  and  imposts  now  existing.     As  interpreted 

t        by  most  Single-Taxers,  the  project  implies  the  abolition  of  pro- 

j  ^  Trom  The  Allanlic  Monthly, 'iz.nxis.ry,  1014.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


J40  IXTRODICTIOX    TO  ARGUMENT 

U"(.ti\c  as  well  as  rcvcmic  duties,  and  of  excises  such  as  those 
levied  upon  tobacco  aiul  alcoholic  beverages. 

It  would  be  unfair  to  the  Single-Taxers,  however,  to  hold 
them  strictly  to  this  narrow  interpretation.  There  is  no  reason 
why  one  might  not  be  a  Single-Taxer  in  principle,  and  still  sup- 
port the  policies  of  protection  and  of  sumptuary  taxation.  All 
that  is  essential  to  the  system  is  that  no  tax  other  than  that 
upon  land  shall  be  levied  mainly  for  revenue  purposes. 

A  tax  upon  land-rent  or  land  value,  according  to  the  accepted 
theory,  rests  upon  the  owner  of  the  land.  He  cannot  shift  it 
to  the  consumer  by  raising  the  price  of  his  products.  He  is 
forced  to  accept  it  as  a  net  deduction  from  the  rent  of  his  land. 
And  since  the  value  of  land  is  ultimately  dependent  upon  its 
rent,  the  adoption  of  the  Single  Tax  would  necessarily  result  in 
a  great  depreciation  of  land  values.  If  the  tax  is  made  so 
heavy  as  to  absorb  the  entire  net  income  from  land  —  and  this 
is  the  express  object  of  the  Single-Taxers  —  the  value  of  the 
land  will  utterly  disappear.  The  individual  may  retain  the 
husk  of  ownership,  but  the  value  kernel  of  landed  property  will 
have  been  seized  by  the  state. 

The  Single-Tax  movement  would,  therefore,  be  aptly  desig- 
nated as  a  propaganda  for  the  universal  confiscation  of  land. 
And  this  designation  the  Single-Taxers  themseh^es  would  accept 
without  reservation.  If  they  prefer  to  call  themselves  Single- 
Taxers  instead  of  Land-Confiscationists,  it  is  solely  on  the  ground 
of  euphony.  Confiscation  is  an  ugly  word ;  but  the  Single- 
Taxers  are  "intellectuals,"  and  it  is  not  characteristic  of  their 
type  to  stick  at  mere  words. 

The  confiscation  of  land,  as  every  one  recognizes,  would  result 
in  the  ruin  of  many  individuals,  and,  presumably,  in  the  enrich- 
ment of  others.  The  same  thing,  however,  is  true  of  any  other 
sweeping  economic  reform.  It  was  true,  for  example,  of  the 
abolition  of  slavery.  Whether  an  economic  reform  can  be 
justified  or  not  depends,  not  so  much  upon  whether  it  despoils 
certain  individuals,  as  upon  whether  the  individuals  so  sacrificed 
form  a  class  that  may  advantageously  be  despoiled.  The  slave- 
owners formed  such  a  class,  since  their  essential  function  was 


COUNCIL  GOVERNMENT   VS.   MAYOR  GOVERNMENT     241 

the  oppression  of  their  fellow-men.  The  landowners,  according 
to  the  Single-Taxers,  form  a  similar  class :  they  are  regarded  as 
typical  monopolists  and  men  of  great  wealth,  an  unacknowledged 
landed  aristocracy.  Furthermore,  whether  the  landowner  is 
rich  or  poor,  he  is,  in  Single-Tax  theory,  a  social  parasite.  All 
social  economic  functions,  it  is  urged,  would  be  exercised  as 
well  if  he  were  eliminated. 

It  is  upon  these  two  contentions  of  the  Single-Taxers  that  the 
whole  issue  turns.  If  they  are  valid,  we  are  forced  to  accept 
the  Single-Tax  programme,  unless  we  possess  private  interests 
that  we  prefer  to  the  public  interest.  If  they  are  not  valid, 
we  must  either  reject  the  Single-Tax  programme,  or  accept  it 
as  a  step  in  the  direction  of  the  confiscation  of  all  private  property. 
Accordingly,  as  impartial  students  of  the  Single  Tax,  we  are 
required,  in  the  first  place,  to  form  an  estimate  as  to  the  actual 
distribution  of  land  values  in  the  United  States ;  and,  in  the 
second  place,  to  determine  the  relation  of  such  values  to  our 
productive  mechanism.  There  are  many  other  points  of  sub- 
sidiary importance,  but  these  alone  are  vital. 

2.    Evidence 

COUNCIL    GOVERNMENT    VERSUS    MAYOR    GOV- 
ERNMENT 1 

E.  Dana  Durand 

We  are  told  that  the  American  city  council  has  proved  itself 
in  practice  unfit  to  be  trusted.  Its  powers  have  been  taken 
away  only  because  it  has  abused  them.  Whatever  methods  of 
election  or  of  organization  have  been  tried,  it  has  been  found 
impossible  to  secure  good  councilmen.  The  system  of  council 
rule  worked  well  enough  in  the  early  days,  with  simple  adminis- 
trative problems  and  a  comparatively  high  c^ualification  for  the 
electorate.  But  with  the  introduction  of  universal  suffrage,  the 
influx  of  foreign  immigrants,  the  intrusion  of  party  politics,  and 

>  From  Pnlilical  Science  Quarterly,  Vol.  XV.     Reprinted  by  permission. 
R 


242  EVIDESCE 

the  growth  of  municipal  functions,  the  system  broke  down 
completely.  These  statements  are  usually  made  as  if  they  were 
self-evident  commonplaces  of  history.  Seldom  is  any  detailed 
study  brought  to  their  supi)ort.  But  historical  evidence  must 
be  handled  with  the  greatest  care  in  order  to  be  conclusive. 
Failure  rightly  to  analyze  causes  and  effects  and  to  take  account 
of  dilTerences  in  conditions  is  apt  to  vitiate  our  reasoning. 
Not  yet  have  we  sufficient  knowledge  of  municipal  history  or 
sufficient  outlook  into  the  future  to  justify  dogmatic  conclu- 
sions as  to  the  relative  success  of  council  rule  and  mayor  rule. 
A  few  considerations  may  be  presented,  however,  which  show- 
how  comparatively  weak  is  this  argument  in  favor  of  the  mayor 
system  from  our  experience  in  city  government. 

It  is  very  generally  admitted,  nor  need  we  stop  to  prove, 
that  up  to  the  end  of  the  third  or  fourth  decade  of  this  century 
American  cities,  which  were  then  usually  under  the  practically 
absolute  control  of  the  council,  were  more  honestly  and,  in  pro- 
portion to  the  technical  advancement  of  the  time,  more  effi- 
ciently governed  than  they  are  to-day.  Indeed,  the  influence 
of  the  example  of  our  federal  Constitution  must  be  looked  upon 
as  probably  the  chief  explanation  of  the  movement  to  withdraw 
executive  powers  from  the  council.  In  1829  New  York  was 
already  a  very  considerable  city,  having  a  population  of  more 
than  200,000  inhabitants.  The  city  convention  which  met  at 
that  time  was  unable  to  advance  charges  against  the  municipal 
administration  in  the  faintest  degree  comparable  to  those  which 
are  made  every  day  against  the  government  of  our  present  cities 
possessing  equal  population.  Nevertheless,  some  evils  were 
found ;  and  the  natural  remedy  seemed  to  the  charter  framers, 
imbued  with  the  principles  of  our  national  and  state  constitu- 
tions, to  separate  the  executive  from  the  legislative  powers. 
But  we  have  not  the  slightest  proof  that  they  correctly  diagnosed 
the  disease  or  prescribed  the  right  remedy.  From  that  time 
on,  in  fact,  both  council  and  administrative  officers  degenerated 
rapidly ;  and  while  this  may  be  partly  explained  by  the  general 
lowering  of  the  tone  of  politics  and  by  the  great  influx  of  for- 
eigners, no  small  share  in  the  demoralization  of  the  council,  at 


COUNCIL  GOVERNMENT  VS.  MAYOR  GOVERNMENT      243 

least,  was  doubtless  due  to  the  weakening  of  its  powers.  After 
the  still  greater  reductions  in  its  authority  by  the  charters  of 
1849  and  1857  and  by  the  gro-^ing  interference  of  the  state 
legislature,  the  council  fell  yet  more  markedly  in  character. 
Each  abuse  of  some  remaining  function  was  made  the  signal 
for  the  transfer  of  that  function  to  the  state  government  or  to 
an  independent  commission.^  There  was  no  attempt  to  con- 
centrate the  powers  thus  taken  away  from  the  council  in  the 
hands  of  the  mayor,  or  indeed  to  establish  in  any  way  harmony 
of  policy  and  centralized  responsibility  for  action.  The  result 
was  a  municipal  government  so  disorganized  that  inefl&ciency 
and  corruption  could  not  but  increase  appallingly.  It  was  with 
a  view  to  bringing  some  order  into  this  chaos  that  later  legisla- 
tion gradually  placed  the  various  branches  of  the  city  adminis- 
tration under  the  control  of  the  mayor. 

The  history  of  the  decay  of  the  authority  of  the  municipal 
assembly  has  been  much  the  same  in  other  cities  as  in  New 
York,  though  the  process  has  gone  on  with  different  degrees  of 
rapidity  and  completeness  in  the  various  municipalities.  We 
Americans  too  often  fail  to  seek  and  to  root  out  the  fundamental 
causes  of  our  political  evils.  We  rush  for  some  external  pallia- 
tive, some  patent  nostrum.  Not  one  of  the  steps  by  which  our 
city  councils  were  robbed  of  authority  was  taken  on  the  basis 
of  careful  study  of  political  principles.  Each  was  a  makeshift 
remedy  for  an  immediate  ill.  Nor  was  there  usually  the  faintest 
evidence  that  any  of  the  better  results  which  occasionally  fol- 
lowed such  changes  were  really  due  to  them.  No  form  of  gov- 
ernment could,  under  the  conditions  then  any  more  than  now, 
give  thoroughly  good  administration.  Had  the  council  been 
left  with  the  main  authority,  we  should  undoubtedly  have  had 
poor  enough  government ;  but  there  is  no  certainty  whatever 
that  it  would  have  been  better  under  the  most  thoroughgoing 
one-man  sway.  We  have,  indeed,  every  reason  to  believe  that 
a  continuation  of  the  earlier  council  rule  would  have  been 

1  For  fuller  description  of  the  process  by  which  the  council  in  New  York  was  de- 
prived of  its  powers  and  of  the  effects  of  that  deprivation,  see  the  writer's  Finances 
of  New  York  Cily,  Chaps.  Ill  and  IV. 


244 


EVIDENCE 


better  than  the  system  which  actually  became  established  in 
most  of  our  cities  ilurinj^  the  years  from  about  1840  to  1880  — 
a  system  characterized  by  hopeless  dilTusion  and  confusion  of 
power  and  responsibility,  legislative  as  well  as  executive,  among 
state  legislature,  council,  mayor,  and  well-nigh  independent  ad- 
ministrative officers  and  boards.  Every  candid  thinker  must 
admit  the  truth  of  this  statement ;  yet  we  are  too  prone  to  for- 
get that  the  form  of  government  for  w^hose  evils  concentration 
of  power  in  the  mayor  was  introduced  as  a  remedy  was  very 
far  from  being  genuine  council  government.  Infinitely  better  is 
it  to  centralize  authority  and  responsibility  than  to  scatter  and 
dissipate  them ;  but  it  does  not  immediately  follow  that  it  is 
better  to  centralize  them  in  one  man  than  in  a  representative 
council.  Because  council  government  was  not  perfect  and  be- 
cause mayor  go\-ernment  has  been  more  satisfactory  than  the 
hodge-podge  which  preceded  it,  many  have  drawn  the  quite 
unwarranted  conclusion  that  rule  by  the  council  is  necessarily 
and  always  inferior  to  rule  by  the  mayor.  We  have  at  present 
in  the  United  States  no  city  where  the  council  is  the  one  con- 
trolling power,  so  that  comparison  of  this  system  with  the 
system  of  one-man  government,  both  working  under  similar 
conditions,  is  impossible.  Some  approach  toward  the  council 
system  is,  indeed,  found  in  a  few  of  our  cities;  and  in  those 
where  the  council  has  the  greatest  power,  such  as  Minneapolis 
and  Atlanta,  the  integrity  and  efficiency  of  the  administration, 
according  to  competent  local  observers,  compare  most  favorably 
with  those  of  other  American  cities.^  But  it  cannot  be  pre- 
tended that  this  evidence  constitutes  a  strong  argument  in  favor 
of  the  council  system  —  any  more  than  the  experience  of  other 
cities  with  corrupt  councils  or  with  mayors,  good  or  bad,  is 
conclusive  as  to  the  best  form  of  city  government.  There  has 
been  far  too  little  method  in  American  municipal  experiments, 
and  far  too  little  scientific  recording  of  their  results,  for  us  to 
hope  to  gain  much  information  from  our  municipal  history. 
The  fallacy  of  the  line  of  reasoning  which  we  have  been 

1  Minneapolis  Conference  for  Good  City  Government,  p.  93 ;  Baltimore  Conference, 
pp.  96-101. 


COUNCIL  GOVERNMENT  VS.   MAYOR  GOVERNMENT      245 

criticising  is  aggravated  by  the  fact  that,  in  pointing  out  the 
results  which  have  come  from  centraHzing  power  in  the  mayor, 
no  account  is  made  of  the  growth  of  pubhc  sentiment  demand- 
ing better  government  and  compelHng  the  choice  of  worthier 
men  for  office  —  men  who  would  have  made  improvement  in  the 
administration  under  any  form  of  organization.  Flagrant 
abuses  from  time  to  time  stir  up  the  "good  citizens,"  who  are 
always  in  the  majority,  if  they  will  only  act  and  act  together. 
A  wave  of  reform  overturns  with  the  same  sweep  forms  and 
individuals ;  for  the  American  reformer  is  never  content  unless 
he  tinkers  the  governmental  machine  at  the  same  time  that  he 
puts  new  men  in  charge  of  it.  The  improvement  which  comes 
perhaps  solely  from  the  change  of  men  is  then  attributed  pri- 
marily to  the  change  in  form.  That  this  is  a  fairly  correct 
description  of  what  has  taken  place  in  recent  years  in  some 
American  cities  which  have  introduced  the  mayor  system  seems 
to  be  evidenced  by  the  fact  that  the  character  of  the  govern- 
ment has  often  been  but  temporarily  improved  after  the  change, 
or  at  least  has  fluctuated  with  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  reform 
spirit  among  the  citizens.  It  is  too  early  to  judge  finally  the 
practical  working  of  the  system.  Undoubtedly  there  has  been 
some  permanent  increase  in  the  interest  of  the  people  in  munic- 
ipal government  and  in  their  devotion  to  the  civic  welfare, 
and  this  fact  will  tend  in  itself  to  give  us  a  higher  level  of  city 
administration.  But  the  path  of  one-man  rule  is  not  all  rose- 
strewn.  Many  bad  mayors  have  got  into  power  and,  by  the 
abuse  of  their  immense  prerogatives,  have  given  administration 
scarcely  equalled  in  extravagance,  inefficiency,  and  corruption, 
during  the  worst  periods  of  the  earlier  regime.  Nor  have  the 
people  always  been  able,  ■ —  as  they  should  have  been,  accord- 
ing to  the  theory  of  the  one-man  system,  —  by  at  once  placing 
the  blame  where  it  belonged,  to  overthrow  the  unworthy  ruler 
and  establish  an  upright  one  in  his  stead.  The  untrammelled 
mayor,  with  his  enormous  patronage,  his  control  of  the  election 
machinery,  his  ability  often  to  conceal  from  the  public  the  true 
character  of  his  administration,  has  not  unfrequently  succeeded 
in  securing  reelection  for  himself  or  triumph  for  his  ring.     Only 


2  40  EVIDEXCE 

.1  iVw  instances  of  the  unsutcessful  workinj^  of  mayor  rule  can 
Id-  ciled  from  amonp  the  many  whose  existence  any  candid 
>tu(ient  of  recent  municipal  history  must  admit. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Boston  has  for  the  most  part  elected 
efficient  and  upright  mayors  during  recent  years,  but  other 
cities  have  not  been  so  fortunate.  In  New  York  City  the 
prominence  of  the  mayoralty  has  at  times  driven  even  Tammany 
Hall  to  put  up  good  men,  such  as  Grace  and  Hewitt.  But 
within  this  very  decade,  in  the  face  of  the  growing  reform  sen- 
timent, that  organization  has  elected  to  the  mayor's  chair  for 
two  successive  terms  an  "illiterate  and  obscure  man"  who  filled 
all  vacant  offices  with  ''adventurers  of  the  lowest  character"; 
while  under  the  rule  of  his  successor,  also  elected  by  Tammany, 
a  legislative  investigating  committee  unearthed  in  the  police 
department  scandals  such  as  scarcely  any  other  civilized  city 
has  ever  known. ^  The  first  election  under  the  Greater  New 
^'ork  charter  resulted  in  the  defeat  of  Seth  Low,  well  known  to 
have  been  the  best  mayor  Brooklyn  had  ever  had,  by  a  man 
who  has  followed  almost  absolutely,  in  his  appointments  and 
his  general  policy,  the  dictation  of  the  Tammany  boss  and  whose 
connection  with  the  Ice  Trust  has  been  by  no  means  creditable. 

In  Brooklyn  the  first  election  under  its  famous  "model  char- 
ter" brought  Mr.  Low  into  the  mayor's  chair,  but  for  eight 
years  after  he  left  office  "mayors  were  elected,  and  appoint- 
ments were  made  by  them,  on  party  grounds"  ;  ^  while  the  ad- 
ministration of  the  city  was  "believed  to  be  feeble  and  untrust- 
worthy, its  public  moneys  and  franchises  to  be  unscrupuloush' 
wasted.  .  .  ."  ^  This  last  is  the  admission  of  a  strong  advocate 
of  the  mayor  system,  who  insists  that  it  was  even  then  working 
well  in  Brookl^m,  for  the  reason  that  the  people  knew  precisely 
who  was  at  fault,  but  who  fails  to  show  us  why  they  did  not 
straightway  put  better  men  into  office. 

Philadelphia,  too,  since  the  great  increase  in  the  power  of 

'  E.  L.  Godkin,  "The  Problems  of  Municipal  Government,"  Annals  of  the  Ameri- 
can Academy  of  PolUical  and  Social  Science,  IV,  857. 

-  D.  B.  Eaton,  The  Government  of  Municipalities,  p.  188. 

*  E.  M.  Shepard,  "The  Brooklyn  Idea  in  City  Government,"  Forum,  XVI,  .38. 


COUNCIL  GOVERNMENT  VS.   MAYOR  GOVERNMENT      247 

the  mayor  in  1887,  has  found  it  impossible,  with  perhaps  a 
single  exception,  to  elect  good  men  to  that  office,  while  the 
character  of  the  council  has  fallen  lower  than  ever  before.^  A 
state  investigation,  made  in  1897,-  revealed  many  abuses  — 
favoritism  and  extravagance  in  letting  contracts,  interference 
by  the  police  in  elections  and  connivance  by  them  in  all  sorts 
of  violations  of  law  9,nd,  above  all,  a  complete  undermining  of 
the  civil  service  reform  system,  this  last  evil  being  emphatically 
corroborated  by  the  secretary  of  the  National  Civil  Service 
Reform  Association.  The  recent  attempt  of  the  mayor  and 
city  officers  to  blackmail  Mr.  Wanamaker  illustrates  the  char- 
acter of  the  administration ;  while  the  lease  of  the  gas  works 
in  1897  appears  to  have  been  accompanied  by  wholesale  corrup- 
tion. Philadelphia's  expenditures  rose  from  $13,273,000  in 
1887  to  $23,491,000  in  1895. 

Similar,  too,  has  been  the  experience  of  several  smaller  cities 
which  have  changed  to  the  one-man  system.  Indianapolis, 
since  the  adoption  of  her  centralizing  charter  in  1891,  has  not 
elected  a  single  mayor  who  has  obeyed  the  spirit,  or  even  the 
letter,  of  the  laws  regulating  the  civil  service.  All  appoint- 
ments have  been  made  on  strictly  partisan  grounds.^  Four 
years  after  Quincy,  Mass.,  greatly  increased  the  power  of  the 
mayor,  Mr.  Gamaliel  Bradford,  who  had  specially  urged  the 
change,  was  forced  to  confess  that  ''extravagance  of  expendi- 
ture, local  jobbing,  and  caucus  politics  are  as  rampant  as  in  any 
other  city  in  the  state."  ^  In  Cleveland  the  mayor  has  abused 
his  appointing  power  for  the  sake  of  aiding  his  own  political 
ambitions.^  Nowhere,  in  fact,  can  the  advocate  of  mayor 
domination,  if  he  be  candid,  point  to  anything  like  thoroughly 
and  continuously  good  administration  where  that  system  has 

'  Mayor  vs.  Council,  p.  28,  quoting  A.  K.  McClure,  editor  Philadelphia  Times. 

2  "Notes  on  Municipal  Government,"  Annals  of  Ike  American  Academy  of  Political 
and  Social  Science,  X,  122. 

'  Mayor  vs.  Council,  p.  27 ;  S.  G.  Swift,  in  Indianapolis  Conference  for  Good 
City  Governments,  i8g8. 

''  G.  Bradford,  "Our  Failures  in  Municipal  Government,"  Annals  of  the 
American  Academy  of  Political  and  Social  Science,  III,  6g9. 

'•  Circulars  of  the  Cleveland  Municipal  League. 


248  EVIDENCE 

prc\ailed.  Temporary  inipri)vcment  has  often  followed  a 
change  to  mayor  rule ;  permanent  improvement  even  has  re- 
sulted in  certain  cases  from  doing  away  with  the  anomalies  and 
complexities  of  earlier  charters ;  but  the  actual  success  of  the 
centralization  of  power  has  fallen  very  far  short  of  fulfilling  the 
promises  which  were  held  out  to  us. 

PROFESSOR   HUXLEY'S   LECTURES  ^ 

E.    L.    GODKIN 

Biologists  like  Professor  Huxley  have,  as  popular  lecturers, 
the  advantage  over  scientific  men  in  other  fields,  of  occupying 
themselves  with  what  is  to  ninety-nine  men  and  women  out  of 
a  hundred  the  most  momentous  of  all  problems  —  the  manner 
in  which  life  on  this  globe  began,  and  in  which  men  and  other 
animals  came  to  be  what  they  are.  The  doctrine  of  evolution 
as  a  solution  of  these  problems,  or  of  one  of  them,  derives  ad- 
ditional interest  from  the  fact  that  in  many  minds  it  runs  counter 
to  ideas  which  a  very  large  proportion  of  the  population  above 
the  age  of  thirty  imbibed  with  the  earliest  and  most  impressive 
portion  of  their  education.  Down  to  1850  the  bulk  of  intelli- 
gent men  and  women  believed  that  the  world,  and  all  that  is 
therein,  originated  in  the  precise  manner  described  in  the  first 
chapter  of  Genesis,  and  about  six  thousand  years  ago.  Most 
of  the  adaptations,  or  attempts  at  adaptation,  of  what  is  called 
the  Mosaic  account  of  the  creation,  of  the  chronological  theories 
of  the  geologists  and  evolutionists  by  theologians  and  Biblical 
scholars  have  been  made  within  that  period,  and  it  may  be 
safely  said  that  it  is  only  within  ten  or  fifteen  years  that  any 
clear  knowledge  of  the  "conflict  between  science  and  religion" 
has  reached  that  portion  of  the  people  who  take  a  lively  or, 
indeed,  any  interest,  in  religious  matters.  It  would  not,  in 
fact,  be  rash  to  say  that  little  or  nothing  is  known  about  this 
conflict  to  this  hour  among  the  great  body  of  Methodists  or 

'  From  Reflections  and  Comments.    Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     Reprinted  by  per- 
mission. 


PROFESSOR  HUXLEY'S  LECTURES  249 

Catholics,  or  the  evangelical  portion  of  other  denominations, 
and  that  their  religious  outlook  is  little,  if  at  all,  affected  by  it. 
One  would  never  detect,  for  instance,  in  Mr.  Moody's  preaching, 
any  indication  that  he  had  ever  heard  of  any  such  conflict,  or 
that  the  doctrines  of  the  Orthodox  Protestant  Church  had  under- 
gone any  sensible  modification  within  a  hundred  years.  Pro- 
fessor Huxley  and  men  like  him,  therefore,  make  their  appear- 
ance now  not  simply  as  manipulators  of  a  most  interesting  sub- 
ject, but  as  disturbers  of  beliefs  which  are  widely  spread,  deeply 
rooted,  and  surrounded  by  the  tenderest  and  most  sacred  asso- 
ciations of  human  existence. 

That  under  such  circumstances  he  has  met  with  so  little 
opposition  is,  on  the  whole,  rather  surprising.  As  far  as  our 
observation  has  gone,  no  strong  hostility  whatever  to  himself 
or  his  teachings  has  been  shown,  except  in  one  or  two  instances, 
by  either  the  clergy  or  the  religious  press.  Indeed,  ministers 
formed  a  very  prominent  and  attentive  portion  of  his  audience 
at  the  recent  lectures  at  Chickering  Hall.  But  it  has  been  made 
apparent  by  the  articles  and  letters  which  these  lectures  have 
called  out  in  the  newspapers  that  the  religious  public  has  hardly 
understood  him.  The  collision  between  the  theologians  and 
the  scientific  men  has  been  very  slight  among  us ;  and,  indeed, 
the  waves  of  the  controversy  hardly  reached  this  country  until 
the  storm  had  passed  away  in  Europe,  so  that  it  is  difficult  for 
Americans  to  appreciate  the  combative  tone  of  Mr.  Huxley's 
oratory.  Of  this  difficulty  the  effect  of  his  substitution  of 
Milton  for  Moses  as  the  historian  of  the  creation,  on  the  night 
of  his  first  lecture,  has  furnished  an  amusing  illustration.  The 
audience,  or  at  least  that  portion  of  it  which  was  gifted  with 
any  sense  of  humor,  saw  the  joke  and  laughed  over  it  heartily. 
It  was  simply  a  telling  rhetorical  device,  intended  to  point  a 
sarcasm  directed  against  the  biblical  commentators  who  have 
been  trying  to  extract  the  doctrines  of  evolution  from  the  first 
chapter  of  Genesis.  But  many  of  the  newspapers  all  over  the 
country  took  it  up  seriously,  and  the  professor  must,  if  he  saw 
them,  have  enjoyed  mightily  the  various  letters  and  articles 
which  have  endeavored  in  solemn  earnest  to  show  that  Milton 


250  EVIDh.SCE 

was  ndl  justly  entitled  to  the  rank  of  a  scientific  expositor,  and 
that  it  was  a  cowardly  thinjj;  in  the  lecturer  to  attack  Moses  over 
Milton's  shoulders.  Whenever  Professor  Huxley  enters  on  the 
defence  of  his  science,  as  distinguished  from  the  exposition  of  it, 
there  are  traces  in  his  language  of  the  f^aiidiutn  certaminis  which 
has  found  expression  in  so  many  hard-fougl)t  fields  in  his  own 
>  ountry,  and  which  has  made  him  perhaps  the  most  formidable 
antagonist,  in  so  far  as  dialectics  go,  that  the  transcendental 
philoso{)hers  have  ever  encountered.  He  is,  par  excellence,  a 
fighting  man,  but  certainly  his  pugnacity  diminishes  neither  his 
worth  nor  his  capacity. 

In  many  of  the  comments  which  his  lectures  have  called  out 
in  the  newspapers  one  meets  ever\'  now  and  then  with  a  curious 
failure  to  comprehend  the  position  which  an  average  non- 
scientific  man  occupies  in  such  a  conflict  as  is  now  going  on  over 
the  doctrines  of  evolution.  Professor  Huxley  was  very  careful 
not  to  repeat  the  error  which  delivered  Professor  Tyndall  into 
the  hands  of  the  enemy  at  Belfast.  He  expressed  no  opinion 
as  to  the  nature  of  the  causal  force  which  called  the  world  into 
existence.  He  did  not  profess  to  know  anything  about  the 
sources  of  life.  He  consequently  did  not  once  place  himself 
on  the  level  of  the  theologian  or  the  unscientific  spectator. 
What  he  undertook  to  do  and  did  was  to  present  to  the  audience 
some  specimens  of  the  evidence  by  which  evolutionists  have 
been  led  to  the  conclusion  that  their  theory  is  correct.  Now, 
the  mistake  which  a  good  many  newspaper  writers  —  some  of 
them  ministers  —  have  made  in  passing  judgment  on  the  lec- 
tures lies  in  their  supposing  that  this  evndence  must  be  weak 
and  incomplete  because  they  have  not  been  convinced.  There 
is  probably  no  more  widely  diffused  fallacy,  or  one  which  works 
more  mischief  in  all  walks  of  life,  than  the  notion  that  it  is  only 
those  whose  business  it  is  to  persuade  who  need  to  be  trained 
in  the  art  of  proof,  and  that  those  who  are  to  be  persuaded 
need  no  process  of  preparation  at  all. 

The  fact  is  that  skill  in  reasoning  is  as  necessary  on  the  one 
side  as  the  other.  He  cannot  be  fully  and  rightly  convinced 
who  does  not  himself  know  how  to  convince,  and  no  man  is 


PROFESSOR  HUXLEY'S  LECTURES  251 

competent  to  judge  in  the  last  resort  of  the  force  of  an  argument 
who  is  not  on  something  hke  an  equahty  of  knowledge  and 
dialectical  skill  with  the  person  using  it.  This  is  true  in  all 
fields  of  discussion;  it  is  preeminently  true  in  scientific  fields. 
Of  course,  therefore,  the  real  public  of  the  scientific  man  —  the 
public  which  settles  finally  whether  he  has  made  out  his  case  — 
is  a  small  one.  Outside  of  it  there  is  another  and  larger  one  on 
which  his  reasoning  may  act  with  irresistible  force ;  but  just 
as  the  fact  that  it  does  so  act  does  not  prove  that  his  hypothesis 
is  true,  so  also  the  fact  that  it  has  failed  to  convince  proves 
nothing  against  its  soundness.  In  other  words,  a  man's  occup)^- 
ing  the  position  of  a  listener  does  not  necessarily  clothe  him 
with  the  attributes  of  a  judge,  and  there  may  be  as  much  folly 
and  impertinence  in  his  going  about  saying,  "I  do  not  agret- 
with  Huxley ;  he  has  not  satisfied  me ;  he  will  have  to  produce 
more  proof  than  that  before  I  believe  in  evolution,"  as  in  going 
about  saying,  "I  know  as  much  about  evolution  as  Huxley  and 
could  give  as  good  a  lecture  on  it  as  he  any  day."  And  yet  a 
good  many  people  are  guilty  of  the  one  who  would  blush  at  the 
mere  thought  of  the  other. 

Another  fertile  source  of  confusion  in  this  and  similar  con- 
troversies is  the  habit  which  transcendentalists,  theological  and 
other,  have  of  using  the  term  "truth"  in  two  different  senses, 
the  scientific  sense  and  the  religious  or  spiritual  sense.  The 
scientific  man  only  uses  it  in  one.  Truth  to  him  is  something 
capable  of  demonstration  by  some  one  of  the  canons  of  induction. 
He  knows  nothing  of  any  truth  which  cannot  be  proved.  The 
religious  man,  on  the  other  hand,  and  especially  the  minister, 
has  been  bred  in  the  application  of  the  term  to  facts  of  an  en- 
tirely different  order  —  that  is,  to  emotions  produced  by  cer- 
tain beliefs  which  he  cannot  justify  by  any  arguments,  and 
about  which  to  him  no  argument  is  necessary.  These  are  the 
"spiritual  truths"  which  are  said  to  be  perceptible  often  to  the 
simple-minded  and  unlearned,  though  hidden  from  the  wise 
and  prudent.  Now  there  is  no  decently  educated  religious  man 
who  does  not  perceive  the  distinction  between  these  two  kinds 
of  truths,  and  few  who  do  not  think  they  keep  this  distinction 


:-j  1AII)/:.\CE 

in  ir.iiid  when  passiiii;  upDii  tlu-  i^roat  problems  of  ihe  oriifin  and 
j^nnvth  o\  the  universe.  Hul,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  we  see  the 
distinction  ij^nored  ever\-  (la\-.  Peo|)le  <;o  to  scientific  lectures 
and  read  scientific  books  with  their  heads  tilled  with  spiritual 
truths,  which  have  come  they  know  not  whence,  and  which 
give  them  infinite  comfort  in  all  the  trying  passages  of  life, 
and  in  view  of  this  comfort  must,  they  think,  connect  them  by 
invisible  lines  of  communication  with  the  great  Secret  of  the 
Universe,  toward  which  philosophers  try  to  make  their  way  by 
visi])le  lines.  When,  then,  they  find  that  the  scientific  man's 
induction  makes  no  impression  on  this  other  truth,  and  that 
he  cannot  dislodge  any  theory  of  the  growth  or  government  of 
the  world  which  has  become  firmly  imbedded  in  it,  they  are  apt 
to  conclude  that  there  is  something  faulty  in  his  methods,  or 
rash  and  presumptuous  in  his  conclusions.  But  there  is  only 
one  course  for  the  leaders  of  religious  thought  to  follow  in  order 
to  pre\ent  the  disastrous  confusion  which  comes  of  the  sudden 
and  complete  breakdown  of  the  moral  standards  and  sanctions 
hx  which  the  mass  of  mankind  live,  and  that  is  to  put  an  end  at 
once,  and  gracefully,  to  the  theory  that  the  spiritual  truth  which 
brings  the  peace  that  passeth  understanding  has  any  necessary 
connection  with  any  theory  of  the  physical  universe,  or  can  be 
used  to  refute  it  or  used  as  a  substitute  for  it,  or  is  dependent 
on  the  authenticity  or  interpretation  of  any  book.  They  must 
not  flatter  themselves  because  a  scientific  man.  here  and  there 
doubts  or  gainsays,  or  because  some  learned  theologian  is  still 
unconvinced,  or  because  the  mental  habits  of  which  faith  is 
born  seem  to  hold  their  ground  or  show  signs  of  revival,  that 
the  philosophy  of  which  Huxley  is  a  master  is  not  slowly  but 
surely  gaining  ground.  The  proofs  may  not  yet  be  complete, 
but  they  grow  day  by  day ;  some  of  the  elder  scientific  men  may 
scout,  but  no  young  ones  are  appearing  to  take  their  places  and 
preach  their  creed.  The  tide  seems  sometimes  to  ebb  from 
month  to  month,  but  it  rises  from  year  to  year.  The  true  course 
of  spiritually  minded  men  under  these  circumstances  is  to  sepa- 
rate their  faith  from  all  theories  of  the  precise  manner  in  which 
the  world  originated,  or  of  the  length  of  time  it  has  lasted,  as 


PROFESSOR   HUXLEY'S  LECTURES  253 

matters,  for  their  purposes,  of  little  or  no  moment.  The  secret 
springs  of  hope  and  courage  from  which  each  of  us  draws  strength 
in  the  great  crises  of  existence  would  flow  all  the  same  whether 
life  appeared  on  the  planet  ten  million  or  ten  thousand  years 
ago,  and  whether  the  present  forms  of  life  were  the  product  of 
one  day  or  of  many  ages.  And  we  doubt  very  much  whether 
any  one  has  ever  listened  in  a  candid  and  dispassionate  frame 
of  mind  to  the  evolutionist's  history  of  the  globe  without  find- 
ing that  it  had  deepened  for  him  the  mystery  of  the  universe, 
and  magnified  the  Power  which  stands  behind  it. 

Not  the  least  interesting  feature  in  the  discussion  about  the 
theory  of  evolution  is  the  prominent  part  taken  in  it  by  clergy- 
men of  various  denominations.  There  is  hardly  one  of  them 
who,  since  Huxley's  lectures,  has  not  preached  a  sermon  bearing 
on  the  matter  in  some  way,  and  several  have  made  it  the  topic 
of  special  articles  or  lectures.  In  fact,  we  do  not  think  we  ex- 
aggerate when  we  say  that  three-fourths  of  all  that  has  been 
recently  said  or  written  about  the  hypothesis  in  this  country 
has  been  said  or  written  by  ministers.  There  is  no  denying  that 
the  theory,  if  true,  does,  in  appearance  at  least,  militate  against 
the  account  of  the  creation  given  in  the  first  chapter  of  Genesis, 
or,  in  other  words,  against  the  view  of  the  origin  of  life  on  the 
globe  which  has  been  held  by  the  Christian  world  for  seventeen 
centuries.  It  would,  therefore,  be  by  no  means  surprising  that 
ministers  should  meet  it,  either  by  showing  that  the  Mosaic 
account  of  the  creation  was  really  inspired  —  was,  in  short, 
the  account  given  by  the  Creator  himself  —  or  that  the  modern 
interpretations  of  it  were  incorrect,  and  that  it  was  really, 
when  perfectly  understood,  easily  reconciled  with  the  conclusions 
reached  of  late  years  by  geologists  and  biologists.  This  is  the 
way  in  which  a  great  many  ministers  have  hitherto  met  the 
evolutionists,  and  for  this  sort  of  work  they  are  undoubtedly 
fitted  by  education  and  experience.  If  it  can  be  done  by  any- 
one, they  are  the  men  to  do  it.  If  it  be  maintained  that  the 
biblical  account  is  literally  true,  they  are  more  familiar  than  any 
other  class  of  men  with  the  evidence  and  arguments  accumulated 
by  the  Church  in  favor  of  the  inspiration  of  the  Scriptures ;  or 


:;4  KVIDESCE 

:.  on  the  other  hand,  it  be  desired  to  reconcile  the  Bible  with 
e\olution.  they  are  more  familiar  than  any  other  class  of  men 
with  the  exejzetical  process  by  which  this  reconciliation  can 
be  effected.  They  are  specialh"  trained  in  ecclesiastical  history 
and  tradition,  in  Greek  and  Hebrew  religious  literature,  and  in 
the  methods  of  interpretation  which  have  been  for  ages  in  use 
among  theologians. 

Of  late,  however,  they  have  shown  a  decided  inclination  to 
abandon  the  purely  ecclesiastical  approach  to  the  controversy 
altogether,  and  this  is  especially  remarkable  in  the  discussion 
now  pending  over  Hu.xley.  They  do  not  seek  to  defend  the 
biblical  account  of  the  creation,  or  to  reconcile  it  to  the  theory 
of  the  evolutionists.  Far  from  it,  they  have  come  down,  in 
most  of  the  recent  cases,  into  the  scientific  arena,  and  are  meeting 
the  men  of  science  with  their  own  weapons.  They  tell  Huxley 
and  Darwin  and  Tyndall  that  their  evidence  is  imperfect,  and 
their  reasoning  from  it  faulty.  Noticing  their  activity  in  this 
new  field,  and  the  marked  contrast  which  this  activity  presents 
to  the  modesty  or  indifference  of  the  other  professions  —  the 
lawyers  and  doctors,  for  instance,  who  on  general  grounds  have 
fullv  as  much  reason  to  be  interested  in  evolution  as  the  ministers, 
and  have  hitherto  been  at  least  as  well  fitted  to  discuss  it  —  we 
asked  ourselves  whether  it  was  possible  that,  without  our  knowl- 
edge, any  change  had  of  late  years  been  made  in  the  curriculum 
of  the  divinity  schools  or  theological  seminaries  with  the  view 
of  fitting  ministers  to  take  a  prominent  part  in  the  solution  of 
the  increasingly  important  and  startling  problems  raised  by 
physical  science.  In  order  to  satisfy  ourselves,  we  lately 
turned  over  the  catalogues  of  all  the  principal  divinity  schools 
in  the  country,  to  see  if  any  chairs  of  natural  science  had  been 
established,  or  if  candidates  for  the  ministry  had  to  undergo 
any  compulsory  instruction  in  geology  or  physics,  or  the 
higher  mathematics,  or  biology,  or  palaeontology,  or  astronomy, 
or  had  to  become  versed  in  the  methods  of  scientific  investiga- 
tion in  the  laboratory  or  in  the  dissecting-room,  or  were  sub- 
jected to  any  unusually  severe  discipline  in  the  use  of  the  in- 
ductive process.    Not  much  to  our  surprise,  we  found  nothing 


PROFESSOR  HUXLEY'S  LECTURES  255 

of  the  kind.  We  found  that,  to  all  appearance,  not  even  the 
smallest  smattering  of  natural  science  in  any  of  its  branches  is 
considered  necessary  to  a  minister's  education;  no  astronomy, 
no  chemistry,  no  biology,  no  geology,  no  higher  mathematics, 
no  comparative  anatomy,  and  nothing  severe  in  logic.  In  fact, 
of  special  preparation  for  the  discussion  of  such  a  theme  as  the 
origin  of  life  on  the  earth,  there  does  not  appear  to  be  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  our  divinity  schools  any  trace. 

We  then  said  to  ourselves.  But  ministers  are  modest,  truthful 
men ;  they  would  not  knowingly  pass  themselves  off  as  com- 
petent on  a  subject  with  which  they  were  unfitted  to  deal.  They 
are  no  less  candid  and  self-distrustful,  for  instance,  than  lawyers 
and  doctors,  and  a  lawyer  or  doctor  who  ventured  to  tackle 
a  professed  scientist  on  a  scientific  subject  to  which  he  had  given 
no  systematic  study  would  be  laughed  at  by  his  professional 
brethren,  and  would  suffer  from  it  even  in  his  professional 
reputation,  as  it  would  be  taken  to  indicate  a  dangerous  want  of 
self-knowledge.  Perhaps,  then,  the  training  given  in  the  di- 
vinity schools,  though  it  does  not  touch  special  fields  of  science, 
is  such  as  to  prepare  the  mind  for  the  work  of  induction  by  some 
course  of  intellectual  gymnastics.  Perhaps,  though  it  does  not 
familiarize  a  man  with  the  facts  of  geology  and  biology  and 
astronomy,  it  so  disciplines  him  in  the  work  of  collecting  and 
arranging  facts  of  any  kind,  and  reasoning  from  them,  that  he 
will  be  a  master  in  the  art  of  proof,  and  that,  in  short,  though  he 
may  not  have  a  scientific  man's  knowledge,  he  will  have  his 
mental  habits. 

But  we  found  this  second  supposition  as  far  from  the  truth  as 
the  first  one  was.  Moreover,  the  mental  constitution  of  the 
young  men  who  choose  the  ministry  as  a  profession  is  riot  apt 
to  be  of  a  kind  well  fitted  for  scientific  investigation.  Reverence 
is  one  of  their  prominent  characteristics,  and  reverence  pre- 
disposes them  to  accept  things  on  authority.  They  are  inclined 
to  seek  truth  rather  as  a  means  of  repose  than  for  its  own  sake, 
and  to  fancy  that  it  is  associated  closely  with  spiritual  comfort, 
and  that  they  have  secured  the  truth  when  they  feel  the  comfort. 
Though,  last  not  least,  they  enter  the  seminary  with  a  strong 


2^6  EVIDENCE 

l)ia>  ill  t'iivor  o{  oiu-  particular  theory  of  the  orip;in  of  life  and  ol 
the  history  of  the  race,  and  their  subsequent  studies  are  marked 
out  and  pursued  with  the  set  purpose  of  strengthening;  this  bias 
and  of  quahfying  them  to  defend  it  and  spread  it,  and  of  associat- 
ing in  their  minds  the  doubt  or  rejection  of  it  with  moral  evil. 
The  consequence  is  that  they  go  forth,  trained  not  as  investi- 
gators or  incjuirers,  but  as  advocates,  charged  with  the  defence 
against  all  comers  of  a  view  of  the  universe  which  they  have 
accepted  ready-made  from  teachers.  A  worse  preparation  for 
scientific  pursuits  of  any  kind  can  hardly  be  imagined.  The 
slightest  trace  of  such  a  state  of  mind  in  a  scientific  man  —  that 
is,  of  a  disposition  to  believe  a  thing  on  grounds  of  feeling  or 
interest,  or  with  reference  to  practical  consequences,  or  to  jump 
over  gaps  in  proof  in  order  to  reach  pleasant  conclusions  — 
discredits  him  with  his  fellows,  and  throws  doubt  on  his  state- 
ments. 

We  are  not  condemning  this  state  of  mind  for  all  purposes. 
Indeed,  we  think  the  wide-spread  prevalence  of  the  philosophic 
way  of  looking  at  things  would  be  in  many  respects  a  great  mis- 
fortune for  the  race,  and  we  acknowledge  that  a  rigidly  trained 
philosopher  would  be  unfit  for  most  of  a  minister's  functions ; 
but  we  have  only  to  describe  a  minister's  education  in  order  to 
show  his  exceeding  unreadiness  for  contentions  such  as  some  of 
his  brethren  are  carrying  on  with  geologists  and  physicists  and 
biologists.  In  fact,  there  is  no  educated  calling  whose  members 
are  not,  on  the  whole,  better  equipped  for  fighting  in  scientific 
fields  over  the  hvpothesis  of  evolution.  Our  surprise  at  seeing 
lawyers  and  doctors  engaged  in  it  would  be  very  much  less 
justifiable,  for  a  portion  at  least  of  the  training  received  in 
these  professions  is  of  a  scientific  cast,  and  concerns  the  selection 
and  classification  of  facts,  while  a  clergyman's  is  almost  wholly 
devoted  to  the  study  of  the  opinions  and  sayings  of  other  men. 
In  truth,  theology,  properly  so  called,  is  a  collection  of  opinions. 
Xor  do  these  objections  to  a  clergyman's  mingling  in  scientific 
disputes  arise  out  of  his  belief  about  the  origin  and  government 
of  the  world  per  se,  because  one  does  not  think  of  making  them 
to    trained   religious   philosophers;    for   instance,    to  Principal 


SPEECH  ON  OLD-AGE  PENSIONS  257 

Dawson  or  Mr.  St.  George  Mivart.  Some  may  think  or  say 
that  the  reUgious  prepossessions  of  these  gentlemen  lessen  the 
weight  of  their  opinions  on  a  certain  class  of  scientific  questions, 
but  no  one  would  question  their  right  to  share  in  scientific 
discussions. 

3.   Body  of  Argument 
SPEECH  ON  OLD-AGE   PENSIONS 

Introduction 

There  are  three  questions  raised  by  the  proposed  Bill. 
I.   Is  the  plan  outlined  in  the  Bill  practicable  ? 
II.   What  is  the  relation  of  this  Bill  to  the  wider  problems  of  social 
reform  ? 
III.   How  will  it  affect  the  national  finances  ? 

Argument 

The  present  Bill  should  not  be  enacted  into  law,  for 
I.   There  are  insuperable  difficulties  in  the  way  of  carrying  out  the 
plan  proposed,  for 

A.  It  will  be  almost  impossible  to  ascertain  the  age  of  appli- 

cants for  pensions,  for 

1.  The  machinery  of  investigation  is  inadequate,  for 

a.  The  three  bodies  entrusted  with  this  duty  have  no 
special  training  for  this  work. 

2.  Legal  proof  of  the  date  of  birth  is  often  not  obtainable,  for 
a.  Many  laborers  come  from  places  where  there  was  no 

registration  of  births. 

B.  The  intentions  of  the  Bill  with  regard  to  qualifications  of 

character  cannot  be  carried  out,  for 

1.  It  is  not  easy  for  officials  to  pass  judgment  on  the  lives 

of  the  poorer  classes. 

2.  It  is  impossible  to  obtain  the  facts  for  the  huge  floating 

populations  of  large  cities. 

3.  A  very  deserving  class  of  persons  may  be  excluded,  for 
a.  Any  one  who  has  accepted  Poor  Law  Relief  is  ineligible 

to  the  pension. 


258  ARGUMENT 

4.  WDrthlcss  persons  miRhl  he  benefited,  for 

(J.  Wulows.  wliatcvor  ihcir  rhuraclcr,  would  receive  pen- 
sions if  I  heir  husbands  had  compUed  with  certain 
requirements. 

5.  Intirni  persons  over  seventy  would   be  thrown  on   the 

workhouse  antl  thereby  deprived  of  their  pensions. 
C.    The  six  or  seven  millions  of  sterling  involved  would  be  a 
source  of  bribery  and  waste,  for 

1.  The  bodies  lo  which  the  sums  are  entrusted  are  respon- 

sible to  no  legal  tribunal. 

2.  Personal  prejudice  and  party  politics  are  bound  to  deter- 

mine the  distribution. 

3.  Good  nature  is  likely  to  relax  the  rigidity  of  the  require- 

ments. 
II.   This  Bill  will  interfere  with  wider  schemes  of  reform,  for 

A.  It  will  be  treated  as  an  addition  to  existing  Poor  Law  Re- 

lief, for 
I.  The  class  of  people  affected  will  not  make  any  line  dis- 
tinction between  pensions  and  Poor  Law  Relief,  for 
a.  Already  in  many  parishes  no  discredit  attaches  to 
receiving  Poor  Law  Relief. 

B.  It  will  become  a  subvention  of  wages,  for 

1.  Men  still  capable  of  work  will  earn  just  enough  to  enable 

them  to  draw  pensions,  and 

2.  Employers  will  benefit  by  labor  which  may  be  worth  more. 

C.  It   will  destroy   the  work  of  the   Royal   Commission   ap- 

pointed to  consider  the  problem  of  the  Poor  Laws,  for 
I.  The  Bill  changes  conditions  and  modifies  the  problem. 
III.    This  Bill  does  not  take  account  of  the  financial  burden  imposed 
upon  the  country,  for 

A.  No  statement  has  been  made  as  to  where  the  money  will 

come  from,  for 
I.  The  belief  that  it  matters  not  whether  the  money  is  paid 
by  charitable  institutions  and  through  the  Poor  Law 
as  at  present,  or  by  the  Treasury,  is  unsound,  for 
a.  The  mere  fact  that  there  is  money  to  be  obtained  does 
not  make  it  easy  for  the  Chancellor  to  obtain  it. 

B.  The  sum  needed  is  likely  to  be  £11,500,000  and  not  £6,500,- 

000  or  £7,500,000. 

C.  It  absolutely  cuts  oflF  future  expenditure  for  all  other  impor- 

tant causes  of  social  betterment. 


SPEECH  ON  OLD-AGE  PENSIONS  259 

Conclusion 

The  Bill  is  hastily  drawn  and  ill-considered,  for 
I.   It  does  not  satisfy  legitimate  demands. 

II.   It  throws  a  heavy  burden  on  the  resources  of  the  state  and  crip- 
ples future  schemes  of  improvement. 

* 

SPEECH  ON  OLD-AGE   PENSIONS  ^ 

A.  J.  Balfour 

I  HAVE  some  reluctance  in  intervening  in  a  debate  of  which 
I  have  not  heard  the  important  speeches  on  either  side,  or  any 
of  the  speeches  until  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  am,  therefore,  not 
quite  aware  of  the  arguments  on  either  side.  I  am,  however, 
reluctant  to  leave  this  Bill,  discussed  as  it  has  been,  without 
making  some  observations  and  attempting  to  sum  up  and 
bring  to  a  focus,  if  I  can,  some  of  the  impressions  that  it  has 
aroused  in  my  mind. 

I  listened  with  interest  to  the  speech  of  the  honorable  Member 
for  Northumberland,  who  has  just  sat  down,  and  thought  much 
of  it  extremely  interesting,  but  was  sorry  that,  contrary  to  his 
ordinary  Parliamentary  habit,  he  should  have  travelled  some- 
what outside  the  scope  of  the  Bill  into  controversial  politics 
of  ten  years  ago.  I  have  not  the  smallest  objection  to  that. 
I  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  controversial  politics.  I  do  not,  how- 
ever, think  it  very  interesting  or  relevant  to  the  Bill.  He  thinks 
that  while  undoubtedly  the  majority  of  the  Unionist  Party  have 
for  many  years  been  in  favor  of  old-age  pensions,  they  ought  to 
have  taken  the  opportunity  of  bringing  in  a  Bill  either  in  the 
session  of  1S96,  1897,  or  1898  —  before,  that  is,  the  South 
African  war,  and  he  thinks  that  the  fact  that  the  Government 
did  not  bring  in  a  Bill  in  one  of  those  three  years  is  a  slur  on  their 
political  reputation.  I  do  not  agree  with  the  honorable  Gentle- 
man. I  do  not  think  that  the  financial  position  of  the  country  at 
that  time  would  have  justified  any  such  experiment  as  the  Govern- 

*  Parliamentary  Debates.  Fourth  Scries,  Vol.  ig2,  col.  175-187. 


jOO  ARGLMi:.\T 

mcnt  is  now  tryinc;,  and  if  the  lapsf  of  three  years  is  supposed 
to  condemn  a  (iovernment  for  not  brin^^inji  a  Hill.  I  should  have 
tht>ught  that  the  prLsent  Government  would  hardly  escape. 

But  that  is  not  an  important  part  of  the  controversy  with 
regard  to  this  Bill,  because  we  are  all  agreed  that  .some  scheme 
of  pensions  is  extremely  desirable,  and  the  only  thing  we  have 
doubt  about  is  the  manner  in  which  the  Government  has  gone 
to  work  in  carrying  out  that  unanimously  accepted  object. 
It  is  that  that  gives  me,  for  one,  very  serious  misgivings.  I 
think  that  neither  the  actual  pro\'isions  of  this  Bill  nor  the  mode 
in  which  the  Government  has  allowed  it  to  be  discussed  gives 
us  the  smallest  security  that  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  costly 
experiments  in  social  legislation  is  going  to  be  tried  under  cir- 
cumstances that  will  give  any  hope  of  permanent  success. 

There  are  three  main  questions  raised  by  the  scheme.  The 
first  is,  will  this  Bill  work  according  to  its  avowed  objects  ?  Is 
the  machinery  of  the  Bill,  in  other  words,  going  to  give  pensions 
on  the  plan  that  the  Government  say  is  desirable  ?  The  second 
is,  how  is  it  going  to  affect  the  broader  and  wider  problems  of 
social  reform  ?  And  the  third  is,  how  is  it  going  to  affect  the 
national  finances  ?  These  are  the  three  problems  that  every  man 
in  this  House,  no  matter  in  which  quarter  he  may  sit,  should 
really  consider  if  he  wants  to  estimate  the  value  of  the  legis- 
lative experiment  the  Government  are  now  trj'ing. 

The  first  point  is  whether  the  Bill  is  really  going  to  work  out 
according  to  the  theory  of  its  framers ;  and,  if  it  does,  what  will 
be  its  results  ?  The  theory  of  its  framers  is  a  very  simple  one. 
They  say  that,  pending  the  acquisition  of  further  national  re- 
sources, they  must  limit  their  Bill  to  pensions  for  persons  seventy 
years  of  age,  and,  to  put  it  broadly,  of  good  character.  How  is 
this  Bill  going  to  attain  these  two  objects  ?  How  is  the  machinery 
going  to  limit  the  Bill  to  persons  of  seventy  and  to  persons  of 
good  character?  And  will  the  machinery  work  smoothly, 
justly,  and  to  pubhc  advantage?  I  cannot  really  believe  that 
the  Government  have  thoroughly  thought  out  the  method  in 
which  their  own  machinery  is  going  to  work. 

Take  the  first  of  the  two  conditions,  that  of  age.     That  is  one 


SPEECH  ON  OLD-AGE  PENSIONS  26 1 

of  the  subjects  we  have  discussed.  We  have  not  had  an  op- 
portunity of  discussing  the  age  as  between  seventy  and  sixty-five, 
because  that  was  shut  out  by  the  closure,  but  we  have  discussed 
on  more  than  one  occasion  the  machinery  by  which  the  age  of 
seventy  is  be  to  arrived  at.  I  do  not  think  that  by  any  state- 
ment the  Government  have  shown  a  clear  idea  of  the  difili- 
culties  by  which  that  investigation  is  surrounded  or  the  means 
by  which  those  difficulties  are  to  be  surmounted.  In  the  first 
place,  who  are  the  investigators  ?  They  are  officers  of  the  Inland 
Revenue,  a  single  committee  for  each  county  and  large  borough, 
and  ultimately  the  President  of  the  Local  Government  Board. 
For  the  life  of  me  I  cannot  see  that  an  investigation  can  be  carried 
out  by  any  of  these  three  bodies.  I  made  some  remarks  in 
Committee  with  regard  to  the  Inland  Revenue  officers  which 
I  believe  have  given  pain  to  those  most  estimable  public  officers. 
If  I  have  said  anything  that  gave  them  pain,  I  most  heartily 
withdraw  it.  They  are  a  most  valuable  body  of  men,  and  carry 
out  duties  of  great  responsibility  with  perfect  uprightness  and 
great  efiiciency.  But  I  ask  whether  the  most  admirable  per- 
formance of  the  duties  of  the  Inland  Revenue  either  gives  a  man 
the  training  or  provides  him  with  the  machinery  by  which 
this  kind  of  investigation  is  to  be  carried  out.  Take  the  case 
of  an  unskilled  laborer  in  London.  He  reaches  an  age  that  he 
himself  thinks  seventy  or  very  nearly  so.  He  believes  that  he 
has  worked  hard  all  his  life,  and  that  if  anybody  deserves  a 
pension  he  does.  He  applies  to  the  Inland  Revenue  officer  and 
says:   "My  name  is  O'Grady." 

Mr.  John  Wilson :  Make  it  Smith,  and  then  you  are  safe. 

Mr.  Balfour :  I  chose  an  Irish  name  for  a  particular  reason 
which  will  appear  directly.  He  says:  "My  age  is  seventy,  and 
I  desire  to  be  supplied  with  a  pension.  I  come  from  Cork." 
The  Inland  Revenue  officer  says:  "What  proof  have  you  that 
you  are  seventy?"  He  has  no  proof.  Why  should  he  have 
a  proof  ?  I  do  not  believe  I  should  know  my  own  age  if  it  were 
not  that  tactless  friends  are  constantly  reminding  me  of  it. 
Most  assuredly  a  dock  laborer  who  left  Cork  thirty  years  ago 
may  very  well  be  excused  if  he  has  not  proof  of  his  age,  since 


262  ARGUMF.ST 

hi-  was  born  in  a  country  whcTc  there  was  no  rcijistration  of 
l)irths  at  the  time  wlu-n  he  was  [)resunial)ly  Ijorn.  How  is  this 
unl'ortunate  ofiicial  t^oinR  to  investi;;ate  in  the  cily  of  Cork 
whether  Mr.  O'Grady  working  at  the  docks  is  or  is  not  seventy 
years  of  age?  The  thing  appears  to  be  wholly  impossible, 
and  there  is  no  machinery  for  doing  it.  The  county  committee 
to  which  he  refers  are  no  better  off  than  himself,  and  if  they 
refer  to  the  head  of  the  Local  Government  Jioard,  he  is  no 
better  ofJ.  The  machinery  cannot  be  found  and  will  not  be 
supplied.  These  are  considerations  that  the  Government  have 
never  faced,  for,  though  they  have  been  urged  more  than  once 
in  Committee,  the  Chancellor  of  the  E.xchequer  has  never  really 
replied  to  them.  He  contented  himself  with  pointing  out, 
what  nobody  denied,  that  in  every  village  the  age  of  everybody 
is  known,  and  that  there  are  places  and  professions  where  there 
would  be  no  difficulty.  That  does  not  get  over  the  difficult 
point  with  regard  to  the  very  people  you  want  to  help  with  these 
pensions,  the  poor  of  the  large  towns,  the  unorganized,  those 
who  do  not  belong  to  trade  unions.  In  these  cases  neither  they 
nor  anybody  else  can  produce  that  legal  proof  which  is  at  the 
ver\'  basis  of  the  Bill. 

If  the  difficulties  with  regard  to  age  are  overwhelming, 
what  are  we  to  say  with  regard  to  the  investigation  as  to  char- 
acter ?  None  of  us  are  without  some  misgivings  as  to  the  enor- 
mous power  given  to  an  Imperial  officer  and  to  a  local  com- 
mittee to  form  a  judgment  on  the  way  in  which  the  poorer 
classes  of  the  community  have  carried  out  their  life's  duty. 
It  is  not  a  pleasant  thing  to  have  to  do,  and  if  it  is  done  honestly 
and  conscientiously,  it  will  be  a  very  painful  duty  thrown  on 
those  who  may  have  to  do  it.  Here,  again,  we  really  have  very 
little  means  of  obtaining  assistance.  Do  not  let  us  consider 
the  country  village  where  every  one's  character  is  known.  There 
may  be  an  opportunity  for  favoritism  or  vindictive  attacks 
on  unpopular  persons,  but  the  facts  will  be  known  and  may  be 
fairly  and  properly  judged  upon.  But  how  can  the  facts  be 
known  with  regard  to  the  great  floating  population  of  the  huge 
industrial  centres  ?     They  cannot  be  known. 


SPEECH  ON  OLD-AGE  PENSIONS  263 

It  seems  to  me  we  may  go  further  and  say  even  that  the  in- 
tentions of  Government  with  regard  to  character  are  not  being 
carried  out.  Will  anybody  look  at  the  Bill  and  consider  the 
position  of  the  widow  ?  Take  the  case  of  a  widow  of  respectable 
character  with  a  number  of  children,  who  has  been  obliged  since 
the  first  of  January  to  appeal  to  the  guardians.  She  cannot 
get  a  pension.  She  is  absolutely  excluded.  Is  there  a  more 
deserving  case  in  the  world  than  the  woman  left  without  a 
husband  to  work  for  her,  living  with  the  care  and  responsibility 
of  children  incapable  of  working  for  themselves?  I  cannot 
imagine  any  case  more  worthy  of  assistance ;  but  it  will  not  be 
assisted.  The  woman  has  been  driven  to  accept  Poor  Law  relief, 
and  she  is  excluded.  When  you  turn  to  the  case  of  a  man  who 
has  subscribed  to  a  friendly  society  from  the  age  of  sixty,  it 
does  not  matter  w^hat  his  wife's  character  may  be.  She  is  sure 
of  a  pension.  The  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  dealt  with 
that  question  on  the  Report  stage,  and  thoroughly  misunder- 
stood it.  He  thought  my  noble  friend  the  Member  for  Mary- 
lebone  was  maintaining  the  proposition  that  a  wife  who  carried 
out  her  household  duties  with  economy  and  efficiency  was  not 
really  helping  to  earn  the  pension  of  which  her  husband,  by 
subscribing  to  a  friendly  society,  was  securing  possession.  That 
was  not  my  noble  friend's  contention.  He  was  pointing  out 
that  a  husband  might  have  been  thrifty,  and  might  have  sub- 
scribed for  ten  years  to  a  friendly  society,  but  if  he  died  a  year 
after  reaching  the  age  of  seventy,  his  widow,  whatever  had 
happened  before,  if  she  had  every  vice  incident  to  poor  humanity, 
would  have  an  absolute  right  to  a  pension  because  her  husband, 
in  spite  of  thriftless  ways  and  worse,  had  been  able  to  continue 
his  subscriptions  for  ten  years.  I  cannot  see  that  that  carries 
out  the  views  of  the  Government  and  of  the  House,  yet  that  is 
the  Bill  as  it  must  go  to  a  House  where  it  is  impossible,  even 
if  the  Government  desire  to  allow  it,  to  make  any  change  in  the 
amount  charged  upon  the  taxpayers. 

There  is  another  point  as  to  character.  Of  all  the  people  we 
want  to  assist,  I  have  warmer  sympathy  with  none  than  with 
the  man  or  woman  who,  towards  the  end  of  a  long  and  honorable 


264  ARGUMEXT 

life,  is  not  well  c'noii,L!;h  after  the  a^e  of  seventy  to  be  looked  after 
in  his  or  her  own  home.  What  is  the  remedy  for  that  person? 
There  is  none  save  the  workhouse  infirmary.  We  ha\e  heard 
a  great  deal  of  the  brand  and  stigma  of  Poor  Law  relief.  It  may 
have  been  e.xaggerated  by  some ;  but  we  all  agree  that  the  self- 
re.sj^ecting  among  the  poor  look  with  extreme  repulsion  upon 
receiving  assistance  through  the  machinery  of  the  Poor  Law  or 
in  Poor  Law  buildings.  But  these  })eople,  who  have,  by  the 
necessity  of  their  condition,  to  make  use  of  Poor  Law  machinery 
and  buildings  are  to  be  deprived  of  what  is  called,  we  believe 
most  falsely,  the  right  to  a  pension.  They  are  not  to  have  five 
shillings  a  week  ;  they  are  to  lose  their  homes ;  they  are  to  suffer 
the  stigma  of  Poor  Law  relief.  It  is  a  great  mistake  to  suppose 
that  the  Bill  touches  the  cases  of  all  the  poor  over  seventy  years 
of  age,  or  even  deals  with  the  most  deserving  cases.  It  does 
not,  and  the  professions  of  the  Government  in  this  respect,  as 
well  as  in  others,  are  wholly  baseless. 

There  is  one  other  point  on  which  I  must  say  a  word.  You 
are  dealing  with  a  sum  which  at  the  lowest  is  £6,500,000,  and, 
according  to  the  Honorable  Member  who  last  spoke,  will  be  much 
more.  You  are  giving  that  over  absolutely  to  bodies  which 
are  responsible  to  no  legal  tribunal  whatever.  I  have  the  utmost 
confidence  in  the  general  honesty  of  the  committees  and  county 
councils  and  of  the  officials  of  the  Government ;  but  are  we  wrong 
to  look  with  some  suspicion  on  the  possibility  that  this  vast 
potentiality  of  bribery  will  never  be  misused  ?  The  six  or  seven 
million  sterling  is  to  be  distributed  at  the  discretion  of  certain 
individuals.  That  discretion  is  not  fettered  by  strict  legal 
interpretation ;  it  is  a  matter  of  estimate  and  judgment.  If  an 
Imperial  officer  thinks  that  a  man  has  not  really  been  a  very 
creditable  character,  or  if  somebody  has  enemies,  it  is  conceivable 
that  that  person  may  lose  both  his  pension  and  his  vote.  I  do 
not  believe  there  is  much  danger  of  abuse  in  this  country.  I 
do  not  believe  that  this  Bill  will  lead  to  it.  Even  if  the  theory 
is  ever  worked  out,  which  I  do  not  believe  it  will  be,  I  admit 
that,  if  there  is  a  danger,  it  is  not  a  great  one  here.  I  am  n(jt 
so  sure  that  where  party  politics  run  high,  as  in  Ireland,  you  can 


SPEECH  ON  OLD-AGE  PENSIONS  265 

be  so  certain  of  the  working  of  it.  It  is  not  that  Irishmen  have 
a  larger  portion  of  original  sin  than  the  rest  of  us ;  but  the  way 
in  which  local  administration  is  worked  in  Ireland  has  a  tinge 
of  party  politics  which  it  has  not  in  any  other  part  of  the  United 
Kingdom,  and  I  am  afraid  that  if  the  Bill  is  worked  on  the 
theory  of  the  Government,  it  will  be  found  that  every  friend  of 
a  local  authority  in  Ireland  will  be  over  the  age  of  seventy,  while 
no  enemy  of  the  local  authority  will  ever  get  beyond  the  age  of 
sixty-nine. 

I  have  been  endeavoring  to  show  that  if  it  is  attempted  to 
work  the  Bill  according  to  theory,  you  throw  an  almost  im- 
possible task  upon  the  executive,  and  your  discrimination  will 
be  arbitrary,  and  the  class  you  most  want  to  help  will  be  ex- 
cluded. But  will  the  Bill  be  worked  according  to  theory? 
Will  its  operation  be  confined  to  persons  over  seventy,  and  of 
virtuous  character?  I  do  not  believe  for  one  moment  that  it 
will.  We  are  very  good-natured  people,  particularly  so  when 
we  are  dealing  with  other  people's  money;  and  the  duty  of  ex- 
cluding anybody  from  the  benefits  of  the  Act  will  be  a  pain- 
ful and  also  an  expensive  one.  Every  committee  which  declares 
a  person  in  its  district,  or  county,  or  borough,  to  be  ineligible 
for  a  pension,  has  to  do  that  which  is  very  painful  from  the  point 
of  view  of  humanity,  and  very  disagreeable  from  the  point  of 
view  of  the  local  purse.  When  humanity  and  economy  are  on 
one  side,  I  think  they  are  too  strong  for  any  legislative  dikes 
which  the  Government  may  raise  against  them,  and  I  do  not 
believe  that  the  dikes  that  the  Government  have  raised  will 
keep  out  the  waters  of  expenditure  for  one  moment.  Honorable 
Gentlemen  below  the  gangway  greatly  regretted  that  they 
could  not  discuss  their  Amendment  for  reducing  the  age  from 
seventy  to  sixty-five.  I  do  not  think  that  it  will  make  very  much 
difference.  I  believe  that  under  this  Bill  everybody  who  desires 
a  pension  and  can  show  a  decent  appearance  of  being  seventy 
will  probably  be  found  eligible  by  a  kindly  Imperial  officer  and 
a  charitable  county  committee. 

That  raises  one  or  two  points  of  very  great  importance. 
The  first  point  touches  on  what  I  have  described  as  the  second 


266  ARGUMEST 

great  question  raised  hy  this  liill  —  namely,  its  future  efiect 
on  social  reform.  If  you  are  going  to  use,  as  I  am  sure  you  are 
going  to  use,  this  Bill  as  a  mere  method  of  giving  pensions  at 
the  taxpayers'  expense  to  persons  in  declining  years,  and  who 
have  not  got  a  very  black  mark,  against  their  characters,  how 
will  you  i)revent  its  becoming  a  mere  part  of  the  outdoor  relief 
system  of  the  country?  You  cannot  do  it.  It  is  quite  true 
that  you  have  got  a  different  machinery  for  allocating  the  money, 
but  to  suj^pose  that  the  ordinary  citizen  is  going  nicely  to  dis- 
tinguish between  what  he  gets  through  the  Imperial  officer  and 
the  committee  and  what  he  gets  through  the  relieving  officer 
and  the  board  of  guardians,  and  to  regard  one  as  discreditable 
and  the  other  as  creditable,  is  really  trespassing  upon  our 
credulity.  There  will  not  be  that  broad  distinction  in  the  inihlic 
mind.  It  will  gradually  be  thought,  what  is,  indeed,  the  fact, 
that  this  is  a  mere  addition  to  outdoor  relief  as  outdoor  relief  is 
now  administered  in  a  large  number  of  parishes  in  this  country. 
In  a  very  large  number  of  unions  in  this  country  it  is  perfectly 
well  known  that  outdoor  relief  is  given  on  easy  terms  to  persons 
who  can  show  a  good  character.  In  those  districts  it  ceases 
to  be  a  badge  of  discredit.  A  proof  of  poverty  it  may  be,  but 
it  is  not  a  badge  of  discredit,  and  these  pensions,  which  will 
certainly  be  given  in  somewhat  reckless  fashion  under  this  Bill, 
will  be  regarded  as  a  substitute  —  an  improved  substitute  I 
admit,  because  it  is  larger  in  amount  —  for  that  outdoor  relief, 
and  there  will  not  be  that  broad  distinction  between  out  relief 
on  the  one  side  and  pensions  on  the  other  which,  I  think,  every- 
body would  desire  should  be  kept  unimpaired.  And,  remember, 
if  you  give,  as  I  think  you  will  give,  these  five  shilling  pensions, 
easily  and  without  examination,  to  persons  whose  age  has  not 
been  proved,  though  ad\anced  in  life,  they  really  do  become  a 
subvention  of  wages.  The  man  of  sixty-five  or  sixty-sLx  who 
conceives  himself,  or  is  conceived  by  his  neighbors,  to  be,  roughly 
enough  for  the  puri)oses  of  this  Bill,  of  the  age  of  seventy,  and 
is  still  capable  of  a  fair  day's  work,  \vill  be  very  glad  to  supple- 
ment his  pension  by  doing  a  certain  amount  of  odd  jobs  if  he 
can  get  anybody  to  employ  him.     But  he  will  neither  desire,  nor 


SPEECH  ON  OLD-AGE  PENSIONS  267 

will  he  obtain,  an  amount  of  wages  which  will  diminish  the 
amount  he  gets  from  the  State.  What  he  will  get  will  be  as 
much  as,  but  no  more  than,  will  enable  him  to  get  the  full  five 
shillings  and,  if  his  labor  is  worth  more  than  that,  the  employer 
gets  labor  at  less  than  its  true  market  price,  and  these  pensions 
become  quite  clearly  and  plainly  a  subvention  in  aid  of  wages, 
as  was  the  case  under  the  old  Poor  Law. 

This  leads  to  another  question  connected  with  social  reform 
on  which  I  confess  I  feel  very  strongly.  What  is  to  be  the  re- 
lation of  this  measure  to  the  inquiry  now  going  on  with  regard 
to  the  reform  of  the  Poor  Law  and  to  the  legislation  which  the 
Government  propose  to  found  thereon  at  some  future  period? 
The  late  Government,  conscious  that  the  Poor  Law  system  of 
the  country  was  antiquated  and  utterly  worn  out,  appointed  a 
Royal  Commission  to  consider  the  subject.  That  commission 
has  been  working  hard  for  three  years.  The  Government  hope 
that  it  will  report  this  year.  I  go  merely  on  common  rumor 
when  I  say  I  think  that  that  13  a  somewhat  sanguine  estimate. 
It  might  have  been  accurate  before  this  Bill,  but  this  Bill  has 
wholly  changed  the  problem  which  is  before  them.  The  Com- 
mission was  appointed  to  consider  the  Poor  Law  as  it  stood  in 
igo6,  but  you  have  profoundly  altered  the  Poor  Law  by  this 
Bill,  and  I  cannot  imagine  —  I  have  had  no  communication 
with  any  member  of  the  Commission  —  how  the  commissioners 
are  going  to  report  without  fresh  investigation  and  without 
waiting  to  see  how  this  Bill  is  going  to  affect  the  problem  of 
outdoor  relief.  I  believe  this  Bill  is  going  to  substitute  five 
shilling  pensions,  broadly  speaking,  for  outdoor  relief  almost 
all  over  the  country.  If  it  is  going  to  do  that,  it  is  quite  evident 
that  the  whole  problem  of  outdoor  relief  will  be  completely 
changed,  and  I  do  not  know  how  in  these  circumstances  you 
can  expect  a  Commission,  dealing  with  so  complex  a  subject,  to 
report  with  any  confidence  to  the  Government  and  the  House. 
The  truth  is  the  Government  must  be  perfectly  well  aware  that 
they  ought  to  have  taken  this  question  of  old-age  pensions  as 
part  of  the  general  problem  of  poverty.  You  cannot  divorce 
the  two.     If  only  for  the  purpose  of  distinguishing  pension 


268  ARGL'MKXT 

from  l\)i>r  Law  relief  you  iiuisl  consi(kr  I  he  two  t()<i;ctlu'r.  You 
must  consider  your  machinery  lor  Poor  Law  rehef  in  order  to 
consider  fairly  your  machinery  for  pensions,  and  until  you  know 
what  your  machinery  for  Poor  Law  relief  is  likely  to  be,  how  can 
you  say  what  your  machinery  for  carryinji;  out  the  pension 
distribution  is  going  to  be,  or  the  relation  which  this  vast  ex- 
penditure of  public  money  is  going  to  bear  to  the  sums  now 
expended  by  Poor  Law  guardians  ? 

This  really  brings  me  to  the  last  of  the  three  points  I  wished 
to  touch  u])on  —  namely,  the  relation  of  this  measure  to  our  na- 
tional linances.  I  confess  that  I  look  on  this  whole  question 
with  considerable  alarm.  The  Honorable  Member  for  New- 
castle-under-Lyme  explained  that  after  all  no  great  burden 
would  be  cast  on  our  national  finances,  because  the  money  was 
now  paid  l)y  the  charitable  and  through  the  Poor  Law,  and  there 
was  not  much  difference  whether  the  burden  was  thrown  on 
the  Exchequer  by  this  Bill  or  whether  it  was  left  to  be  paid 
sporadically  and  uncertainly,  partly  by  Poor  Law  machinery 
and  partly  by  the  private  machinery  of  charity.  I  think  that 
the  Honorable  Member  is  profoundly  mistaken.  It  makes 
the  whole  difference  where  the  money  comes  from.  The  mere 
fact  that  there  is  money  to  be  got  somewhere  does  not  make  it 
easy  for  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer  to  get  it.  The  Honor- 
able Member  who  last  spoke  congratulated  the  Government 
on  having  brought  in  the  Bill  with  courage.  I  see  very  little 
courage  in  the  bringing  in  of  this  Bill.  Courage  is  required  if 
you  bring  in  a  Bill  whose  provisions  and  the  financial  resources 
connected  with  it  are  brought  into  one  conspectus  before  the 
public,  and  they  are  shown  what  they  are  to  get  and  what  they 
have  to  pay  for  it.  The  Government  here  shows  what  the  public 
are  to  get,  but  they  have  not  yet  been  shown  how^  they  are  to 
pay  for  it. 

But  there  is  a  divergence  of  opinion  even  among  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Government.  The  Prime  Minister  assured  us  more 
than  once  that  the  Government  had  considered  the  point,  and 
that  they  clearly  saw  their  way  to  provide  the  necessary  funds 
by  means  of  free  trade  finance.     This  method  of  carrying  it 


SPEECH  ON  OLD-AGE  PENSIONS  269 

out  is  a  secret  which  the  Prime  Minister  has  kept  not  only  from 
the  Opposition,  but  from  his  colleague  the  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer.  I  think  that  is  carrying  secrecy  too  far.  I  think 
that  in  the  comity  of  the  Cabinet  the  late  Chancellor  of  the 
Exchequer  should  have  told  the  present  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer how,  within  the  limits  of  free  trade  finance,  £6,500,000 
are  to  be  found  next  year  and  £7,500,000  the  year  after.  It  is 
not  going  to  be  £7,500,000  either.  If  my  interpretation  of  the 
present  situation  is  correct,  you  will  get  to  £11,500,000  almost 
immediately,  and  how  within  the  limits  of  free  trade  finance  are 
you  to  get  £11,500,000?  There  is  no  great  information  to  be 
got  either  from  the  present  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer,  accord- 
ing to  what  he  has  already  told  the  City,  and  if  he  has  kept  the 
secret  from  the  high  financial  authorities  of  the  City,  it  is  not 
likely  that  he  will  tell  his  critics  in  the  House.  I  do  not  ask 
him,  therefore,  to  tell  us,  if  he  does  not  know.  But  again  I  ask, 
where,  within  the  limits  of  free  trade  finance,  are  £6,500,000  or 
£7,500,000  or  £11,500,000  to  be  obtained  ?  The  finance  cannot 
be  put  on  one  side,  and  when  the  right  Honorable  Gentleman  has 
got  the  money,  neither  he  nor  anyone  else  can  deny  the  enormous 
public  burden  put  upon  the  finances  of  the  State.  It  is  not  a 
thing  to  be  lightly  done,  nor  is  it  to  be  done  without  some 
general  survey  of  your  financial  obligations.  I  do  not  under- 
stand that  the  Government  have  made  any  such  general  financial 
survey. 

I  am  not  going  to  raise  the  question  of  the  burden  of  national 
armaments ;  but  there  are  other  questions  eminently  deserving 
of  the  attention  of  the  House  connected  with  social  reform. 
Is  it  not  manifest  that  almost  every  problem  of  social  reform 
comes  back  to  the  Treasury,  the  Imperial  or  the  local  Treasury, 
in  the  end  ?  How  are  you  going  to  give  these  vast  sums  for  one 
particular  purpose  if  you  have  dried  up  the  sources  of  supply 
for  the  use  of  any  other  purposes  that  can  be  proposed?  It 
may  be  right,  while  the  objects  to  be  attained  by  the  Bill  are 
so  clear  and  excellent  that  we  need  not  regret  the  expenditure. 
But  I  should  like  to  know  what  the  other  things  are.  Money 
lies  at  the  root  of  almost  everything  we  do ;  but  I  do  not  think 


ayo  .iA'or.»//-.\r 

that  you  will  finil  the  su^Kcstt-'d  taxation  of  the  rich  a  \cry 
siitislactory  nu-thod  of  increasinf^  the  national  resources  for  the 
purjioses  of  social  reform,  even  from  the  point  of  view  of  society. 
I  admit  that  this  Hill  will  greatly  relieve  the  Poor  Law,  that  it 
will  be  a  subvention  to  the  local  authorities  in  aid  of  the  Poor 
Law.  So  far  they  may  have  resources  set  free  for  other  j)ur- 
poses  connected  with  housing,  education,  and  other  cognate 
questions ;  but  I  do  not  believe  that  any  future  Government 
for  years  to  come  can  have  money  at  liberty  for  any  other  pur- 
pose of  social  reform  whatever.  How  can  they?  The  Chan- 
cellor of  the  Exchequer  is  a  sanguine  man,  and  I  belie\e  he 
looks  forward,  almost  cheerfully,  to  the  problems  of  the  next 
Budget,  although  they  are  as  yet  unsolved  in  his  mind.  I 
■wish  liim  well.  But  even  in  his  most  sanguine  mood  he  can 
hardly  look  forward  to  the  time  of  this  great  and  growing  charge 
when  he  will  be  able  to  meet  satisfactorily  other  claims  that  touch 
the  heart  and  the  conscience.  What  we  want  is  some  broader 
survey  of  their  obligations  before  they  commit  the  country 
to  this  vast  ex-penditure.  The  Government  have  made  no  such 
survey,  and  they  have  admitted  this.  In  the  forefront  of  one 
of  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer's  speeches,  he  told  us  with 
emphasis  that  they  w'ere  going  to  await  the  Report  of  the  Poor 
Law  Commission  in  order  to  form  some  kind  of  estimate  of  what 
the  reforms  would  cost,  that  they  were  going  to  frame  the  finances 
of  the  country  on  lines  not  only  to  satisfy  all  that  can  be  asked 
for  from  this  Bill,  but  from  the  other  Bill.  But  they  will  not 
have  a  shilling  to  deal  with  the  Report  of  the  Poor  Law  Com- 
mission or  for  the  demands  made  upon  them  for  social  reforms. 
It  is  for  that  reason  I  look  forward,  and  not  I  alone,  with  much 
misgiving  to  the  method  by  which  the  Government  are  attempt- 
ing to  carry  out  the  objects  of  this  Bill.  With  those  objects 
I  heartily  sympathize.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  frankly 
admit  I  rejoice  in  a  policy  of  old-age  pensions,  but  I  should  like 
to  have  seen  that  most  difficult  of  all  social  problems  dealt  with 
in  a  manner  by  which  alone  a  satisfactory  result  will  ensue. 
I  should  like  to  haxe  seen  a  serious  attempt  to  produce  some 
scheme  by  which  all  these  investigations  might  be  avoided,  and 


A   DEFENCE  OF   THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS  271 

we  might  be  able  to  give  a  pension  as  of  course,  or  have,  what 
I  should  much  prefer,  some  contributory  scheme.  I  am  told 
that  the  Parliamentary  Secretary  to  the  Local  Government 
Board  said  that  he  himself  at  an  earlier  period  had  been  in 
favor  of  a  contributory  scheme.  I  do  not  think  that  he  ought 
too  hastily  to  have  given  up  such  a  scheme  as  impracticable. 
Such  a  scheme  would  at  all  events  have  two  plain  and  manifest 
advantages  —  it  would  avoid  inquisitorial  investigation,  and 
it  would  get  over  the  other  difficulties  which  have  been  alluded 
to  at  less  cost  to  the  Exchequer,  and  that  means  that  more 
money  would  be  left  free  for  the  necessary  purposes  of  national 
defence  or  other  great  purposes  of  social  reform. 

I  regret  the  hasty  course  which  the  Government  have  taken, 
but  the  responsibility  must  lie  with  them.  The  Government 
alone  have  the  opportunity  of  estimating  the  resources  at  their 
disposal  for  carrying  it  out.  They,  and  they  alone,  have  the 
machinery  for  making  some  comparative  survey  of  all  the  needs 
of  the  State.  On  them  lies  the  responsibility.  The  Bill  does 
not  satisfy  the  demands  of  those  who  claim  the  right  to  old-age 
pensions,  and  on  the  other  hand  it  so  burdens  and  cripples 
the  national  resources  that  we  may  find  it  impossible  to  meet 
other  obligations  not  less  pressing,  not  less  connected  with  the 
safety  of  the  State  and  the  well-being  of  the  poorer  members 
of  the  State. 

A  DEFENCE  OF  THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS  ^ 

Sir  William  Anson 

You  are  practically  proposing  to  make  this  a  single  Chamber 
Constitution.  Are  we  in  accord  with  general  principles  in 
accepting  a  Constitution  of  this  kind?  I  will  venture  to  say 
that  there  is  no  civilized  government  which  has  not  secured 
itself  in  some  way  or  other  from  rash  or  hasty  legislation  by  the 
popular  Assembly,  either  by  a  written  Constitution,  or  by  a 

•  A  Speech  delivered  in  the  House  of  Commons,  June  23,  1907.  .  Parliamentary 
Debates,  Fourth  Scries,  Vol.  176,  col.  908. 


272  ARGL'MRNl 

rcliTfiuluni,  or  l)y  a  Second  Chainl)i.T  -  by  oik-  o{  these  three 
nu'thoils  which  are  universally  eniplo^-eil  for  protection  af^ainst 
this  uniiouhted  risk.  The  object  of  a  Second  Chamber,  as 
stated  by  an  eminent  Colonial  authority,  is  to  delay  great  changes 
until  the  will  of  the  people  has  been  permanently  and  conclusively 
ascertained.  We  are  not  singular  in  retaining  this  precaution ; 
we  are  rather  singular  in  having  so  little  precaution  against 
violent  and  revolutionary  changes. 

May  I  refer  to  other  democracies  and  republics?  Turn  to 
the  United  States,  and  note  the  precaution  taken  against  legis- 
lation which  runs  counter  to  the  will  of  the  people.  The 
Federal  Government  is  based  on  a  written  constitution  and  two 
legislative  Chambers,  whose  powers  of  law-making  are  defined 
and  expressly  limited  by  the  constitution,  and  a  change  in  the 
constitution  can  only  be  effected  by  something  in  the  nature  of 
a  referendum.  Not  only  that,  but  every  State  has  a  written 
constitution,  and  although  the  legislative  powers  of  those  States 
are  unlimited,  except  in  so  far  as  the  federal  constitution  pre- 
scribes, I  may  say  that  the  tendency  of  the  constitution  is  to 
add  to  the  number  of  subjects  which  are  excluded  from  the 
general  legislative  powers  of  the  State,  and  in  which  the  con- 
stitution requires  that  there  should  be  a  referendum  to  the 
people  of  the  country.  And  not  only  that,  but  every  State  has 
two  Chambers.  Mr.  Bryce,  one  of  the  chief  authorities  on  this 
subject,  says,  "The  need  of  two  Chambers  has  become  an  axiom 
of  political  science,  based  on  the  belief  that  the  innate  tendency 
of  an  Assemljly  to  become  hasty,  tyrannical,  or  corrupt,  can  only 
be  checked  by  the  co-e.xistence  of  another  House  of  equal  au- 
thority." He  further  states  "that  the  only  States  that  have 
t-ver  tried  to  do  with  one  House  are  Pennsylvania,  Georgia, 
and  Vermont,  each  of  which  gave  up  the  system,  one  after  four 
years,  the  other  after  twelve  years,  and  the  third  after  fifty 
years." 

Turn  to  the  constitution  of  the  French  Republic.  There 
you  have  a  Senate  and  a  Chamber  of  Representatives  coordi- 
nate in  respect  of  legislative  power,  except  that  the  Senate  has 
no  initiative  in  matters  of  finance.     The  power  of  demanding 


A   DEFENCE  OF   THE  HOUSE  OF   LORDS  273 

a  dissolution  of  the  Chamber  does  not  rest  with  the  Prime 
Minister,  but  with  the  President  acting  with  the  consent  of 
the  Senate.  And  the  Senate,  according  to  a  recent  authority, 
does  very  valuable  work  in  correcting  the  over-hasty  legislation 
of  the  Chamber,  and,  in  case  of  disagreement,  often  has  its  own 
way,  or  effects  a  compromise. 

Lastly,  I  take  the  Australian  Commonwealth.  I  think  that 
the  democratic  character  of  the  Australian  Colonies  can  hardly 
be  called  in  question.  But  there  is  a  difference  in  the  two 
Chambers  of  the  Australian  Commonwealth.  The  procedure 
is  as  follows :  The  House  of  Representatives  passes  a  pro- 
posed law,  and  if  the  Senate  rejects  or  amends  it  in  any  way  to 
which  the  House  of  Representatives  cannot  agree,  the  Bill  drops 
for  the  time.  It  comes  up  again  after  three  months,  and  if  the 
Senate  still  disagrees,  the  Governor  may  dissolve  both  Houses. 
If  afterwards  the  same  difference  arises,  and  the  disagreement 
still  goes  on,  then  the  two  Houses  sit  together,  and  the  opinion 
of  the  majority  of  the  whole  number  prevails. 

There  you  have  three  great  modern  democracies,  each  of 
which  guards  itself  against  such  legislation  as  might  well  be 
effected  by  this  House  of  Commons,  if  it  received  the  unlimited 
powers  which  are  proposed  to  be  given  to  it  by  the  Prime  Minister. 
I  venture  to  think  that  there  is  nothing  pedantic  in  looking  at 
the  actions,  the  law,  and  the  practice  of  other  constitutions  as 
democratic  as  our  own.  If  these  safeguards  are  necessary  for 
them,  they  are  necessary  for  us.  If  they  cannot  trust  a  single 
Chamber,  we  may  learn  from  them  how  to  guard  against  the 
possibilities  of  a  House  of  Commons  whose  powers  were  limit- 
less. 

But  setting  aside  those  examples,  if  we  look  simply  at  the 
proposals  of  the  Prime  Minister,  these  two  questions  arise. 
What  are  the  faults  of  the  House  of  Lords  that  they  should  be 
superseded  and  set  aside  in  this  way,  and  what  is  the  claim  of 
the  House  of  Commons  to  arrogate  to  itself  this  unbounded 
legislative  power?  Now,  I  am  perfectly  ready  to  admit  that 
the  House  of  Lords  has  its  faults  as  a  Second  Chamber ;  but  it 
was  never  constructed  to  discharge  the  purposes  of  a  Second 

T 


J74  ARGL.UEXr 

Chamber  in  the  modern  sense;  it  is,  historically,  the  estate  of 
the  baronage,  a  coordinate  estate  of  the  reabii  with  the  House 
«)f  Commons.  It  has  become  a  Second  Chamber,  I  admit,  and 
to  my  mind  discharges  extremely  well  many  of  the  duties  of 
a  Second  Ciiamber.  I  admit  that  it  is  too  large,  that  it  contains 
too  many  men  who  take  no  active  part  in  politics,  and  that, 
like  every  Second  Chamber  that  can  be  dc^•ised,  it  is  conservative 
in  its  tendencies,  because  the  very  object  of  the  existence  of 
a  Second  Chamber  is  to  preserve  the  nation  from  the  over-hasty 
legislation  of  the  other  House.  But  I  will  undertake  to  say 
that  the  House  of  Lords  has  never  crossed  the  will  of  the  people 
where  that  will  has  been  clearly  expressed. 

Take  any  instance  since  the  Reform  Act  of  1832,  which  you 
may  say  is  the  beginning  of  our  modern  constitution.  Take 
cases  in  which  it  was  extremely  possible  that  a  majority  of  the 
House  of  Lords  were  not  wholly  in  accord  with  the  legislation 
that  was  passed.  Take  the  disestablishment  of  the  Irish  Church, 
the  Irish  land  legislation  of  Mr.  Gladstone,  the  changes  in  the 
franchise  of  1884-1885,  or  the  Trades  Disputes  Bill  of  last  year. 
On  every  one  of  these  measures  the  country  had  clearly  expressed 
its  opinion.  The  Aliens  Bill  of  last  year,  alluded  to  by  the  Honor- 
able Member  for  Clitheroe,  was  not  rejected  by  the  House  of 
Lords ;  it  w^as  not  proceeded  with  because  it  was  not  taken  up 
by  the  Government,  or  it  might  have  been  passed.  Where  there 
might  have  been  irritation  or  delay  before  Bills  had  been  passed, 
the  ultimate  result  has  been  valuable,  because  the  settled  and 
the  permanent  will  of  the  nation  has  been  ascertained,  and  a 
measure  when  it  became  law  has  been  accepted  as  a  final  settle- 
ment by  all  parties.  If  there  were  no  such  certainty,  one  House 
of  Commons  would  undo  the  work  of  another,  and  there  would 
be  a  legislative  see-saw  and  lack  of  continuity  which  would  be 
disastrous.  There  is  to  be  borne  in  mind  the  monumental  case 
in  which  the  House  of  Lords  understood  the  will  of  the  nation 
tjetter  than  the  House  of  Commons.  In  1893  it  was  the  will 
of  the  House  of  Commons  to  pass  a  Home  Rule  Bill,  and  it 
would  have  gone  on  passing  it  under  the  scheme  of  the  Prime 
Minister   as  long  as  the  Parliament   endured.     But  in  1895  it 


A   DEFENCE  OF   THE  HOUSE  OF  LORDS  275 

was  plain  that  the  will  of  the  House  of  Commons  was  not  the 
will  of  the  nation.     Which  do  you  wish  to  see  carried  into  effect  ? 

If  you  wish  to  see  the  will  of  the  nation  carried  into  effect, 
what  steps  will  you  take  to  see  that  that  will  is  properly  ex- 
pressed? You  claim  that  the  majority  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons is  finally  representative  during  the  duration  of  a  Parliament, 
of  the  will  of  the  nation.  So  long  as  there  are  single-Member 
constituencies,  and  until  all  elections  take  place  on  the  same  day, 
the  House  of  Commons  will  not  represent  the  country  for  more 
than  a  few  weeks  after  a  general  election.  Although  a  mandate 
is  claimed  by  Honorable  Members  opposite  to  deal  with  subjects 
mentioned  by  them  on  political  platforms,  what  really  deter- 
mines at  a  general  election,  apart  from  their  promises  as  to  the 
future  and  the  misrepresentations  of  their  followers  as  to  the 
past,  is  that  at  a  general  election  where  there  is  a  great  turn- 
over of  parties,  many  people  think  that  one  party  has  had  a  great 
spell  of  power  and  that  the  other  side  should  have  a  chance ; 
and  then  you  say  that  every  measure  you  bring  in  and  introduce 
into  this  House  is  expressing  the  will  of  the  people?  Why  do 
you  not  take  the  measures  which  are  open  to  you  to  ascertain 
the  will  of  the  people  ? 

The  Under-Secretary  for  the  Colonies  wrote  an  article  in 
the  Nation  in  which  he  expressed  his  view  as  to  the  constitution 
of  a  second  Chamber,  and  his  view  is  not  the  view  of  the  Prime 
Minister.  The  Under-Secretary  thinks  that  the  Ministry  should 
constitute  a  second  Chamber  to  suit  their  own  purposes  at  the 
commencement  of  every  Parliament,  for  he  wrote:  "Since 
the  political  supremacy  of  the  House  of  Commons  must  be  the 
vital  characteristic  of  any  Liberal  scheme,  we  must  reject 
with  regret,  but  with  decision,  all  proposals  for  enabling  the 
House  of  Lords  to  force  every  Liberal  measure  to  the  test  of 
a  referendum.  Such  a  provision  would  be  contrary  to  the  whole 
spirit  of  the  British  Constitution.",  The  Under-Secretary  for 
the  Colonies  maintains  that  the  referendum  is  contrary  to  the 
spirit  of  the  British  Constitution.  There  is  a  curiously  undem- 
ocratic ring  about  that.  I  thought  the  Party  opposite  were 
going  to  breathe  a  new  spirit  into  the  Constitution,  but  it  seems 


2j()  REI-UTATION 

that  wliile  we  may  abolish  llic  House  of  Lords  without  a  ref- 
erence to  the  people,  yet  that  to  consult  the  people  on  any 
great  ICf^islative  measure  on  which  their  opinion  is  not  iisccr- 
taincd  is  contrary  to  the  spirit  of  the  Constitution.  I  urge 
Honorable  Members  ojiposile  not  to  disguise  the  full  efTect  of 
what  is  being  proposed.  The  proposition  is  this  —  that  when 
the  House  of  Commons  is  once  elected,  it  shall  do  as  it  likes, 
and  that  the  people  shall  be  powerless.  You  say  to  the  people, 
"When  you  have  once  elected  us  the  virtue  is  gone  out  of  you; 
for  the  years  we  are  your  masters ;  at  the  end  of  that  time  you 
may  enjoy  a  brief  opportunity  of  expressing  a  will  of  your  own." 
I  doubt  whether  the  country  desires  this  great  change,  and 
I  feel  sure  that  when  the  matter  is  clearly  placed  before  them 
they  will  express  a  very  decided  opinion  upon  it.  If  the  Lords 
have  traversed  the  will  of  the  people,  and  resisted  reasonable 
suggestions  for  the  reform  of  that  Chamber,  then  you  may  appeal 
to  the  country  on  those  grounds.  But  what  you  are  asking  us 
to  do  is  to  forego  the  safeguards  which  all  the  democracies  in 
the  world  have  found  to  be  necessary;  and  to  leave  nothing 
between  the  will  of  the  House  of  Commons  and  the  veto  of  the 
Crown.  Put  this  question  plainly  to  the  country ;  you  will 
get  a  clear  answer,  and  I  have  no  doubt  as  to  what  the  answer 
wall  be. 

4.  Refutation  and  Conclusion 

THE   INTELLECTUAL  POWERS   OF  WOMAN  ^ 

F.VBiAN'  Franklin 

The  North  American  Review  for  September  contains  a  spirited 
discussion  by  Mrs.  G.  G.  Buckler  of  several  aspects  of  the  woman 
question.  Of  these  it  is  the  object  of  the  present  paper  to  con- 
sider one  only :  that  which  Mrs.  Buclder  presents  in  the  form  of 
the  inquiry,  Has  woman  ever  produced,  or  is  she  likely  to  produce, 
anything  first-rate  in  the  higher  branches  of  literature,  science, 
or  art  ? 

'  From  People  and  Problems.  Henry  Holt  and  Company,  1908.  Reprinted  by 
permission  of  the  North  American  Review  and  the  author. 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  POWERS  OF  WOMAN  277 

After  a  rapid  survey  of  the  field,  Mrs.  Buckler  answers  the 
first  half  of  this  question  with  a  decided  negative ;  on  the  second 
half,  in  the  only  formal  statement  she  makes  concerning  it,  she 
holds  to  a  position  of  judicial  doubt.  "Women  have  never  yet 
attained,"  she  says,  "the  highest  rank  in  science,  literature,  or 
art.  Whether  they  ever  will  do  so  is,  of  course,  a  mere  matter  of 
opinion,  and  here  it  is  well  carefully  to  discriminate  facts  from 
theories."  And  she  proceeds  to  reject  with  something  approach- 
ing contempt  the  a  priori  arguments  which  have  been  advanced 
to  show  that  women  are  of  necessity  precluded  from  high  intel- 
lectual achievements. 

Did  this  passage  represent  the  whole  drift  of  the  article,  the 
present  writer  would  have  no  quarrel  with  it.  It  is  true  that 
woman  has  never  yet  attained  the  highest  rank  in  science,  litera- 
ture, or  art.  It  is  also  true  that  the  question  whether  she  ever 
will  or  not  is  a  mere  matter  of  opinion  —  or  rather  of  purely 
speculative  conjecture.  But  the  formal  disclaimer  thus  made  of 
any  decision  as  to  the  possibilities  of  the  future  is  not  in  agree- 
ment with  the  judgments  expressed  with  emphasis  at  various 
points  in  the  article.  No  reader  can  lay  it  down  without  the 
feeling  that  the  author  holds  the  facts  of  history  to  be  conclusive 
as  to  the  limitations  of  woman's  intellectual  powers.  Thus, 
after  speaking  of  women  mathematicians,  Mrs.  Buckler  says : 
"Yet,  taken  all  in  all,  these  few  individual  instances  of  female 
achievement  in  science  serve  only  to  prove  the  rule  that  women 
as  discoverers  are  inferior  to  men."  So  far  as  literature  is  con- 
cerned, she  is  even  more  explicit  when  she  says:  "Probably 
woman's  kind  in  literature  will  always  be  found  to  be  the  humbler 
species,  the  lyric,  and  especially  the  hymn,  letter-writing  and 
domestic  novels."  But  what  is  more  to  the  purpose  is  the 
general  drift  of  the  whole  article,  which  is  clearly  and  emphati- 
cally to  the  effect  that,  in  literature  at  least,  women  have  had 
ample  opportunity  to  show  their  powers,  and  that  the  result  of 
the  test  has  been  a  demonstration  of  hopeless  inferiority ;  and 
that  a  similar  test,  not  quite  so  conclusive,  yet  practically  suf- 
ficient, has  established  the  same  result  in  the  other  two  great 
departments  of  intellectual  activity. 


a  78  REFUTATION 

That  the  facts  of  history  arc  not  only  not  conclusive,  but 
cannot  |)roperly  be  regarded  as  establishing  even  a  |)resumption 
concerning  the  limitations  of  the  intellectual  powers  of  woman, 
it  is  the  object  o{  the  present  paper  to  show.  Strange  as  the  asser- 
tion may  at  first  blush  appear,  it  is  nevertheless  true  that  the 
presumption  that  women  are  incapable  of  the  highest  intellec- 
tual achievement  may  far  more  reasonably  be  based  uy^on  mert 
ordinary  impressions  than  upon  anything  which  historical  ex- 
perience has  thus  far  been  able  to  furnish.  If  a  man  feels  it  in 
his  bones  that  no  woman  ceuld  possibly  write  a  poem  as  great  as 
Paradise  Lost  or  evolve  a  body  of  arithmetical  doctrine  like  that 
of  the  Disguisiiioiics  Arithmetical,  his  state  of  mind  is  the  result 
of  a  vast  array  of  experiences,  for  the  most  part  absorbed  uncon- 
sciously, but  not  the  less  valuable  on  that  account.  A  con\ac- 
tion  arrived  at  in  this  way  it  is  difficult  to  dislodge  or  weaken. 
But  when  the  position  is  taken,  as  it  has  been  taken  by  many 
previous  writers,  as  well  as  by  ^Irs.  Buckler,  that  women  ha\e 
historically  demonstrated  their  incapacity  for  such  triumi)hs 
by  not  yet  having  achieved  them,  it  is  not  difficult  to  show  that 
the  argument  is  thoroughly  unsound. 

•T-^>e  fiTafandmost  vital  defect  in  all  these  discussions  is  their 
total  neglect  of  the  question  of  numbers.  "No  woman  has  at- 
tained the  highest  rank  in  science,  literature,  or  art  "  —  granted. 
But  in  all  the  ages  of  the  world  there  have  been  but  a  handful 
of  men  who  have  attained  this  rank  ;  and  only  an  utterly  insig- 
nificant fraction  of  the  female  sex  can  be  regarded  as  ha\ing  been 
in  any  sense  in  the  running  for  these  high  honors.  Among  the 
writers  who  hold  Mrs.  Buckler's  view,  one  never  finds  the  slight- 
est attempt  to  take  into  account  the  relation  of  these  numbers. 
With  all  but  an  insignificant  fraction  of  the  sex  ruled  out,  would 
not  women  have  contributed  more  than  their  quota  if  they  had 
furnished  even  one  name  to  the  list  of  immortals  ? 

The  force  of  this  inquiry  will  become  much  more  apparent  if 
we  turn  aside  for  a  moment  from  the  woman  question.  Take 
our  own  great  country,  and  ask  whether  any  American  has  at- 
tained the  highest  rank  in  science,  literature,  or  art.  We  have 
had  no  Newton,  no  Darwin,  no  Gauss ;  there  has  not  only  been 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  POWERS  OF  WOMAN  279 

no  American  Shakespeare  or  Dante,  but  no  American  Goethe  or 
Burns ;  and  neither  Beethoven  nor  Michael  Angelo  has  even  a 
distant  relative  on  the  roll  of  American  glory.  Does  it  enter  any 
one's  mind  to  infer,  hence,  that  Americans  are  intrinsically  in- 
capable of  the  greatest  triumphs  in  science,  in  literature,  or  in 
art?  And  yet  the  number  of  American  men  who  have  in  the 
past  hundred  years  been  placed  in  circumstances  conducive  to 
the  accomplishment  of  great  work  is  incomparably  larger  than 
that  of  all  the  women  who  have  ever  been  so  placed. 

Other  examples  will  point  the  moral  cpite  as  strikingly.  Take 
the  history  of  German  literature.  Between  the  romances  and 
songs  of  chivalry  which  were  produced  in  the  twelfth  and  thir- 
teenth centuries,  and  the  revival  of  German  literature  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  there  lies  a  dreary  interval  of  five  hundred 
years  during  which  Germany  produced  not  a  single  literary 
figure  of  importance,  to  say  nothing  of  the  "highest  rank."  And 
all  this  time  her  universities  were  keeping  up  the  love  of  learning ; 
she  had  ancient  capitals  and  historic  courts ;  she  went  through 
the  stimulating  experience  of  the  Protestant  Reformation,  and 
it  was  within  her  bounds  and  during  this  period  that  the  art  of 
printing  was  invented.  Or,  again,  take  Scotland.  An  English- 
man writing  in  the  year  1750  could  far  more  justly  have  said  of 
Scotchmen  than  any  one  can  to-day  say  of  women,  that  his- 
torical experience  had  proved  that  we  could  not  expect  from  them 
writings  capable  of  attracting  the  attention  or  influencing  the 
thought  of  the  world.  Yet  the  next  half-century  found  Scot- 
land furnishing  to  philosophy  the  preeminent  name  of  Hume,  to 
political  economy  the  illustrious  Adam  Smith,  to  poetry  Burns, 
and  to  prose  Walter  Scott. 

One  is  tempted  here  to  introduce  examples  in  which  the  course 
of  history  has  been  the  reverse  of  this  —  cases  where  a  period  of 
glory  has  been  followed  by  ages  of  utter  insignificance.  Of  these, 
incomparably  the  most  striking  is  that  of  Greece,  or,  let  us  say, 
of  Athens.  But  the  phenomenon  presented  by  tlie  magnificent 
flowering  of  Greek  genius  in  a  single  century,  followed  by  two 
millennia  of  obscurity,  illustrates  much  more  than  this  lesson 
of  numbers,  and  may  well  serve  to  introduce  the  second  great 


28o  REFUTATION 

di'fcct  of  the  historical  arRumcnt  against  the  capabilities  of 
women.  For  not  only  has  almost  the  entire  mass  of  womankind, 
in  all  historic  ages  up  to  the  last  two  or  three  decades,  been  prac- 
tically placed  completely  out  of  the  running,  but  the  extremely 
small  minority  from  whom  high  achievement  might  possibly  l)e 
cxpectetl  have  been  wholly  cut  olT  from  those  inllucnces  which 
have,  in  the  case  of  men,  so  great  a  share  in  the  stimulation  of 
ambition  and  the  development  of  genius.  Men  who  have  had 
the  spark  of  genius  or  even  of  talent  in  them  have  been  spurred 
to  elTort  by  all  their  surroundings,  by  the  traditions  of  the  race, 
by  rivalry-  wiih  their  comrades,  by  the  admiration  which  the 
opposite  sex  accords  to  brilliant  achievements,  by  the  dread  of 
disappointing  the  high  expectations  of  relatives  and  friends,  by 
the  thousand  nameless  forces  which  impel  and  animate  to  exer- 
tion. What  of  all  this  has  there  been  for  women  ?  How  many 
have  been  so  placed  as  to  even  think  of  an  intellectual  career  as 
a  possibility?  Of  these  few,  how  many  have  been  otherwise 
than  solitary  in  their  youthful  aspirations  and  efforts?  None 
has  had  the  goad  of  the  humiliation  of  failure  to  urge  her  on,  for 
from  none  was  anything  great  expected  or  looked  for.  And  the 
very  absorption  in  a  high  intellectual  interest,  which  in  the  case 
of  a  boy  would  be  hailed  with  delight  even  by  the  humblest  par- 
ents as  an  earnest  of  future  greatness,  was,  in  the  case  of  girls, 
up  to  the  last  two  or  three  decades,  universally  condemned  and 
repressed  and  thwarted  even  in  the  most  cultivated  families. 

There  is,  of  course,  a  ver>'  easy  answer  to  all  this.  Genius, 
it  will  be  said,  rises  superior  to  all  obstacles,  and  will  manifest 
itself  in  spite  of  all  disadvantages.  The  widespread  acceptance 
of  this  comfortable  doctrine  is  an  interesting  example  of  the  way 
in  which  opinions  that,  when  examined,  are  seen  to  be  mutually 
contradictory,  may  jog  along  together  in  the  same  mind  without 
inconvenience.  The  same  persons  who  hold  this  view  of  the 
infinite  resources  of  genius  will  accept  without  hesitation  the 
current  explanation  of  the  brilliant  periods  in  the  intellectual 
history  of  the  world,  or  of  a  particular  nation.  But  if  the  great- 
ness of  English  literature  in  the  time  of  Elizabeth  is  to  be  ex- 
plained by  reference  to  the  glories  of  her  reign  in  arms  and  ad- 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  POWERS  OF  WOMAN  281 

venture  and  statesmanship ;  if  it  is  not  to  be  considered  as  an 
accident  that  Italy's  preeminence  in  art  and  literature  was 
coincident  with  the  period  when  her  rival  states  were  at  their 
highest  point  of  wealth  and  political  importance  and  civic  pride ; 
if  Augustus  had  something  to  do  with  the  Augustan  age,  and  we 
find  it  quite  natural  that  Virgil  and  Horace  wrote  then,  and  not 
in  the  reign  of  Augustulus ;  if  we  find  a  line  of  succession  like 
Socrates,  Plato,  and  Aristotle,  or  like  ^schylus,  Sophocles,  and 
Euripides,  and  recognize  in  it  something  most  impressive,  in- 
deed, but  nothing  abnormal  or  miraculous ;  if  we  see  nothing 
strange  in  the  failure  of  the  Greek  race  to  produce  a  single  world- 
name  in  two  thousand  years,  after  having,  within  the  compass 
of  a  century  and  a  half,  furnished  a  considerable  fraction  of  all 
the  names  on  the  brief  list  of  the  world's  greatest  men  —  if  all 
these  things  are  so,  what  becomes  of  the  notion  that  inborn 
genius  will  triumph  over  all  adversity  of  circumstance?  In 
one  breath  we  recognize  that  intellectual  glory  can  be  looked 
for  only  when  the  spirit  of  the  time  and  the  conditions  of  the 
national  Ufe  are  favorable  to  it ;  shall  we  say,  the  next  moment, 
that  genius  is  sure  to  assert  itself  under  all  circumstances  ?  Evi- 
dently the  two  positions  are  incompatible. 

So  much  for  the  inconsistency  of  the  notion  that  "genius  will 
out"  with  the  all  but  universally  accepted  view  that  great  things 
are,  as  a  rule,  done  only  in  times  somehow  favorable  to  greatness. 
That  it  is  the  first,  and  not  the  second,  of  these  doctrines  which 
is  at  fault  may  easily  be  shown  almost  to  demonstration ;  one 
has  only  to  run  over  any  list  of  the  world's  intellectual  heroes 
and  strike  out  those  who  belonged  to  some  great  period.  Leave 
only  the  solitary  giants  who  arose  unheralded  and  alone,  who 
wrote  noble  verse  in  an  ignoble  time,  or  made  immortal  works 
of  art  for  a  down-trodden  or  mean-spirited  people,  or  extended 
the  bounds  of  human  knowledge  at  a  time  when  learning  was 
held  in  contempt.  Is  it  necessary  actually  to  go  through  the 
task?  Is  it  not  plain  at  once  that,  if  it  were  performed,  the 
splendid  roll  of  immortals  would  shrink  almost  to  nothing  ?  And 
yet,  if  this  be  so,  it  is  clear  that,  far  from  being  sure  to  triumph 
over  all  the  obstacles  of  circumstance,  native  genius  depends 


282  REFriATlOX 

almost  invarial)ly  ior  its  fruitful  (li'vclo])im'nt  upon  influences  to 
which  it.  alonjj  with  nu-ancr  ciuiownicnts,  is  subjected.  Hy  this 
is  not  to  be  understood  any  approval  oi  the  evolutionary  cant 
which  at  one  time  was  so  prevalent  and  which  asserted  that 
works  of  f^enius  were  a  mere  "proiluct"  of  the  environment. 
The  environment  cannot  make  a  genius,  and  cannot  '"evolve" 
his  work.  On  the  other  hand,  however,  genius  is  not  endowed 
with  omnipotence,  but,  as  common  sense  would  indicate,  and  as 
historic  experience  amply  demonstrates,  it  may  be  powerfully 
helped  or  fatally  hindered  by  the  atmosphere  which  it  fmds 
itself  compelled  to  breathe. 

But  the  ordinary  dilTerences  of  atmosphere  between  one  age 
and  another,  which  we  thus  readily  recognize  to  have  an  influence 
so  powerful  upon  literature  and  art,  are  insignificant  in  compari- 
son with  the  dilTerence  between  the  atmosphere  which  has  sur- 
rounded women  and  the  atmosphere  which  has  surrounded  men 
in  all  times.  To  suppose  that  absolute  exclusion  from  the  oppor- 
tunities of  culture  is  the  only  important  factor  that  has  to  be 
taken  into  account  would  be  to  overlook  in  this  c^uestion  what 
all  acknowledge  as  of  predominant  importance  when  we  are  con- 
sidering the  history  of  civilization  at  large.  Most  vital  of  all 
the  adverse  influences,  except  such  absolute  exclusion,  has  been 
the  prevalent  sentiment  as  to  what  is  fitting  and  commendable, 
as  well  as  the  prevalent  estimate  of  what  is  possible,  for  women. 
The  elTect  of  such  influence  has  been  well  expressed  by  Colonel 
Higginson:  "Systematically  discourage  any  individual,  from 
birth  to  death,  and  they  learn,  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  to  ac- 
quiesce in  their  degradation,  if  not  to  claim  it  as  a  crown  of  glory. 
If  the  Abbe  Choisy  praised  the  Duchesse  de  Fontanges  for  being 
'beautiful  as  an  angel  and  silly  as  a  goose,'  it  was  natural  that  all 
the  young  ladies  of  the  court  should  resolve  to  make  up  in  folly 
what  they  wanted  in  charms." 

Only  those  of  us  who  are  very  young  have  any  need  of  historical 
research  to  assure  ourselves  that  up  to  an  extremely  recent  date 
there  was  not  one  person  in  a  hundred,  of  either  sex,  who  did 
not  look  upon  a  really  learned  woman  as  a  monstrosity.  And 
yet  it  is  instructive  to  take  an  occasional  glance  farther  back 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  POWERS  OF  WOMAN  283 

and  find,  for  instance,  that  when,  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
Frangoise  de  Saintanges  wished  to  establish  girls'  schools  in 
France,  she  w^as  hooted  at  in  the  streets  and  her  father  called 
together  four  doctors  learned  in  the  law  to  decide  whether  she 
was  not  possessed  by  the  devil  to  think  of  educating  women 
{"pour  s'' assurer  qu'instrnire  des  femmes  n'etait  pas  un  oeuvre  du 
demon") ;  or  that  Fenelon  held  virgin  delicacy  to  be  almost  as 
incompatible  with  learning  as  with  vice ;  or  that  Dr.  Gregory,  in 
his  book  A  Legacy  to  His  Daughters,  which  seems  to  have  been 
regarded  as  a  standard  work  on  female  propriety  at  the  end  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  utters  such  a  warning  as  this:  "Be 
cautious  even  in  displaying  your  good  sense ;  it  will  be  thought 
you  assume  a  superiority  over  the  rest  of  the  company.  But  if 
you  have  any  learning,  keep  it  a  profound  secret,  especially  from 
the  men,  who  generally  look  with  a  jealous  and  malignant  eye 
on  a  woman  of  great  parts  and  cultivated  understanding." 
Every  one  knows  that  the  two  women  who  in  our  century  have 
won  most  distinction  by  their  mathematical  work  had  to  acquire 
the  elements  of  the  science  surreptitiously  and  in  the  face  of  un- 
yielding parental  opposition,  though  both  belonged  to  families 
of  culture  and  high  social  standing.  No  one  fails  to  see  that  this 
was  getting  knowledge  under  difficulties ;  but  few  realize  the 
more  important  lesson  that  it  teaches.  For  who  shall  say  how 
many  girls  may  have  had  mathematical  powers  greater  than 
Mrs.  Somerville's  or  Madame  Kovalewski's,  without  possessing 
those  other  qualities  which  braced  these  two  to  fly  in  the  face  of 
what  they  had  been  steadily  taught  from  infancy  to  regard  as 
right  and  becoming  in  a  woman  ? 

One  might  go  on  almost  indefinitely,  pointing  out  the  vast 
differences  between  the  motives  and  ideals  of  the  two  sexes. 
But  these  considerations  will  easily  occur  to  every  one.  The 
youthful  dreams  and  aspirations  of  a  gifted  boy  cluster  around 
high  achievement  and  resounding  fame,  because  all  that  he  hears 
and  reads  tends  to  arouse  in  him  such  ambitions ;  from  earliest 
childhood,  a  girl  learns  to  look  forward  to  quite  other  things  as 
her  ideal.  Beginning  with  the  fairy  tale  and  going  on  through 
poetry  and  romance  and  the  talk  of  real  life,  the  only  thing  which 


284  REFIT  ATJON 

is  held  up  to  her  as  ])raiscworthy  is  the  tL-iuier  ministering  to  the 
needs  of  those  around  her ;  and  it  is  the  conquest  of  men  by 
beauty  and  charm  which  is  presented  to  her  imagination  as  the 
one  triumph  that  a  woman  prizes.  The  very  girls  who  are  most 
capable  of  great  work,  those  possessing  an  abounding  vitality, 
high  spirits,  the  pride  of  life,  are  sure  to  go  in  for  the  great  prize 
of  happiness,  and  they  cannot  unite  the  winning  of  the  prize 
with  intellectual  work  so  long  as  intellectual  work  is  regarded  as 
unfcminine. 

But  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  make  an  exhaustive  list  of  the 
hindrances  to  woman's  intellectual  achievements.  I  have 
wished  merely  to  fasten  attention  upon  them,  and  to  show  their 
bearing  upon  that  matter  of  numbers,  which,  while  it  is  the 
vital  element  of  the  whole  question,  is  so  strangely  ignored  by 
the  supporters  of  the  view  maintained  in  the  article  under  dis- 
cussion. Let  us  quote  one  or  two  passages  from  it.  "Taking 
literature  as  our  first  topic,  we  find  women  from  the  earliest 
days  expressing  their  thoughts  in  verse  and  prose.  Yet  as  real 
poets  we  can  only  mention  the  half  mythical  Sappho,  and  pos- 
sibly, in  our  own  day,  Mrs.  Browning  and  Christina  Rossetti." 
"  Women  from  the  earliest  days  "  ;  yes,  but  how  many,  and  under 
what  circumstances?  "In  physics  and  mathematics  we  find 
feminine  enthusiasts  at  quite  an  early  date.  .  .  .  Vet,  taken 
all  in  all,  these  few  individual  instances  of  female  achievement 
in  science  serve  only  to  prove  the  rule  that  women  as  discoverers 
are  inferior  to  men."  In  such  a  dictum  the  fact  is  entirely  lost 
sight  of  that  the  whole  number  of  women  who  acquired  the 
elements  of  the  infinitesimal  calculus,  in  the  two  centuries  from 
its  creation  by  Newton  and  Leibnitz  to  the  opening  of  Vassar 
College  in  1865,  was  probably  less  than  the  number  of  mathe- 
matical honor  men  the  single  University  of  Cambridge  turns 
out  in  a  single  year.  Yet  of  the  ten  thousand  men  or  so  whom 
the  University  of  Cambridge  has,  within  the  past  hundred  years, 
stamped  with  her  certificate  of  honor,  after  a  course  of  training 
upon  which  that  stronghold  of  English  mathematics  concentrates 
all  her  powers,  only  two,  or  at  most  three,  have  achieved  high 
rank  as  discoverers  in  pure  mathematics. 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  POWERS  OF  WOMAN  285 

In  drawing  conclusions  like  those  just  cited,  writers  continu- 
ally forget  that  great  distinction  is,  ex  vi  termini,  an  extremely 
rare  thing.  The  truth  is  that  they  are  impelled  to  the  conclu- 
sion not  so  much  by  the  facts  which  they  cite  in  support  of  it, 
as  by  a  predisposition  to  believe  it.  Of  this  predisposition  they 
may  themselves  be  entirely  unconscious;  but  that  it  exists  is 
shown  by  their  failure  to  draw  like  inferences  from  similar  and 
indeed  much  stronger  premises,  where  there  is  no  foregone  con- 
clusion to  point  the  way.  Almost  every  word,  for  instance, 
that  is  said  of  the  failure  of  women  to  achieve  the  very  highest 
distinction  in  science,  literature,  and  art,  may  be  said  with  equal 
truth  of  Americans,  and  with  vastly  greater  emphasis  of  the  in- 
habitants of  almost  any  of  our  great  States,  say  Pennsylvania ; 
yet  no  one  thinks  of  inferring  from  this  that  Americans  or 
Pennsylvanians  are  utterly  barred  by  inherent  defect  from  ever 
attaining  the  highest  intellectual  glory.  It  will  be  a  long  time 
before  women  may  be  truthfully  said  to  have  had  a  test  in 
comparison  with  men  anything  like  as  fair  as  that  which  Ameri- 
cans have  had,  or  perhaps  even  that  which  Pennsylvanians  have 
had,  in  comparison  with  the  world  at  large ;  but  because  America 
has  produced  no  Dante,  no  Newton,  no  Beethoven,  it  does  not 
enter  any  one's  mind  to  conclude  that  the  middle  heights  of 
fame  must  be  the  limit  of  an  American's  ambition. 

But  this  is  not  the  only  way  in  which  the  predisposition  to  a 
foregone  conclusion  manifests  itself.  I  have  freely  granted  the 
literal  correctness  of  the  assertion  that  women  have  not  in  any 
department  achieved  the  very  highest  distinction ;  but  when 
it  comes  to  drawing  a  much  lower  line  than  this,  and  asserting 
that  women  have  never  come  up  to  it,  the  case  is  very  different. 
Writers  adopting  the  view  which  Mrs.  Buckler  holds  are  very 
apt  to  betray  the  kind  of  bias  that  shows  itself  in  the  famous 
jeu  d'esprit  about  German  scholarship  written  before  the  days 
of  Germany's  preeminence  in  philology :  — 

The  Germans  in  Greek 
Are  sadly  to  seek ; 
All  save  only  Hermann  — 
And  Hermann's  a  German. 


286  REFUTATION 

Work  which,  if  ilone  by  ii  man,  would  be  regarded  as  falling 
little  short  of  the  highest,  takes  on  in  the  minds  of  these  writers 
a  feminine  littleness  or  limitation,  for  no  discoverable  reason 
except  that  the  author  of  it  was  a  woman.  Why,  for  instance, 
does  Mrs.  Buckler  repeatedly  speak  of  the  "domestic"  novel 
as  marking  the  limits  of  woman's  possibilities  in  the  art  of 
fiction?  Could  anything  be  more  gratuitous?  Is  Romola  a 
domestic  novel?  I  take  Brockhaus'  Encyclopedia,  which  hap- 
pens to  be  at  my  side,  and  find  that  this  German  authority 
describes  it  as  "a  picture  of  the  Italian  Renaissance  of  the  last 
half  of  the  fifteenth  century,  drawn  with  a  master  hand."  We 
all  know  that  it  is  this  and  much  more;  and  evidently  the 
writer  omitted  to  mention  specifically,  in  so  condensed  an 
account,  its  other  high  qualities  only  because  he  had  just  given 
the  following  characterization  of  the  earlier  novel,  Adam  Bede: 
"Its  excellences  are  a  development  of  character  as  profound  as 
it  is  brilliant,  true  epic  force  and  richness,  a  style  of  extraordi- 
nary individuality  and  purity,  \x\d  a  highly  original  represen- 
tation of  English  provincial  life."  Does  one  speak  in  this  way 
of  a  mere  "domestic  novel"?  In  what  derogatory  sense  can 
any  of  George  Eliot's  novels  be  so  designated?  And  yet  the 
behttlement  implied  in  the  words  is  heightened  by  the  context ; 
for  we  find  hymn-making,  letter-writing,  and  the  composing  of 
domestic  novels  put  together  as  constituting  that  "hurhbler 
species"  in  literature  which  "woman's  kind"  not  only  has 
always  been,  but  "probably  will  always  be  found  to  be." 

This  underestimation  of  woman's  achievement  in  a  direction 
in  which  many  women  have  been  distinguished  and  a  few  have 
been  truly  great  is  so  remarkable,  and  is  so  instructive  as  show- 
ing how  large  a  part  unconscious  bias  may  play  in  these  judg- 
ments, that  I  shall  dwell  upon  it  a  moment  longer,  and  forego 
all  criticism  of  estimates  of  feminine  performance  in  other  fields, 
which,  though  not  open  to  so  strong  an  objection,  are  yet 
vitiated  in  the  same  manner.  In  a  passage  other  than  that  just 
quoted  we  again  find  "letter-writing  and  novels  of  domestic 
life"  coupled  together  on  an  apparently  equal  footing;  and 
here  we  find  women's  excellence  in  these  departments  ascribed 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  POWERS  OF  WOMAN  287 

to  "their  special  demand  for  the  feminine  quaHties  of  quick 
emotion  and  ready  observation."  Let  me  place  alongside  of  this 
unfavorable  estimate  some  words  about  George  Sand  written 
by  the  greatest  of  English  critics :  — 

Whether  or  not  the  number  of  George  Sand's  works  —  always 
fresh,  always  attractive,  but  poured  out  too  lavishly  and  rapidly  — 
is  likely  to  prove  a  hindrance  to  her  fame,  I  do  not  care  to  consider. 
Posterity,  alarmed  at  the  way  in  which  its  literary  baggage  grows 
upon  it,  always  seeks  to  leave  behind  it  as  much  as  it  can,  as  much  as 
it  dares  — ■  everything  but  masterpieces.  But  the  immense  vibra  ■ 
tion  of  George  Sand's  voice  upon  the  ear  of  Europe  will  not  soon  die 
away.  Her  passions  and  her  errors  have  been  abundantly  talked  of. 
She  left  them  behind  her,  and  men's  memory  of  her  will  leave  them 
behind  also.  There  will  remain  of  her  to  mankind  the  sense  of  beneiit 
and  stimulus  from  the  passage  upon  earth  of  that  large  and  frank 
nature,  of  that  large  and  pure  utterance  —  the  large  utterance  of  the 
early  gods.  —  Matthew  Arnold,  Mixed  Essays. 

The  object  of  this  article  was  stated  at  the  outset  to  be  a 
negative  one.  Its  purpose  was  to  show  that  "the  facts  of  his- 
tory are  not  only  not  conclusive,  but  cannot  properly  be  re- 
garded as  establishing  even  a  presumption  concerning  the  limi- 
tations of  the  intellectual  powers  of  woman."  The  positive 
proposition  that  women  are  capable  of  doing  such  work  as  has 
been  done  by  a  few  score  only  of  all  the  thousands  of  millions 
of  men  in  the  world's  history,  I  have  made  no  attempt  to  estab- 
lish. But  that  the  absence,  up  to  the  present  time,  of  supreme 
preeminence  on  the  part  of  any  woman  cannot  be  allowed  any 
logical  weight  in  support  of  the  conclusion  that  the  sex  is  in- 
capable of  such  distinction,  I  think  the  foregoing  considerations 
sufficiently  show.  I  have  pointed  out,  in  the  first  place,  that 
those  who  draw  such  an  inference  entirely  fail  to  pay  regard  to 
the  all-important  question  of  numbers ;  they  forget  for  the 
time  being  how  very  rare  the  kind  of  achievement  is  upon  the 
absence  of  which  they  base  their  conclusions.  Great  nations 
have  gone  on  for  hundreds  of  years  without  producing  a  single 
important  literary  figure;    and  it  must  be  plain  to  any  fair- 


288  REFUTATION 

minded  person  that  the  whole  number  of  women  in  all  nations 
and  all  times  who  may  have  been  said  to  be  so  placed  as  justly 
to  be  considered  in  the  comparison,  is  far  less  than  that  of  the 
men  so  placed  in  any  great  nation  in  a  single  century.  It  is 
only  within  the  last  few  decades  that  any  cunsideraljle  num- 
ber of  girls  have  grown  up  with  any  other  notion  than  that 
serious  intellectual  work  in  their  sex  is  a  monstrosity;  and 
only  in  England  and  America  has  a  dilTcrcnt  view  of  the  matter 
been  widely  entertained  even  in  our  time,  the  "woman  move- 
ment'' having  attained  an  important  character  in  Germany 
only  within  the  past  five  or  ten  years. 

In  the  second  place,  I  have  endeavored  to  emphasize  the  fact 
that  even  this  numerical  exclusion  of  all  but  an  extremely  small 
fraction  of  the  sex  does  not  begin  to  measure  the  disadv^antage 
of  women  in  the  comparison.  Every  one  must  recognize  that 
the  minute  fraction  which  may  properly  be  considered  at  all 
has  not  been  surrounded  by  the  atmosphere,  affected  by  the 
agencies,  impelled  by  the  stimuli,  which  exercise  so  incalculable 
an  influence  upon  human  achievement;  but  there  is  a  not  un- 
natural tendency  to  think  that  after  all  there  ought  to  have 
been  some  women  who  had  risen  superior  to  all  these  things. 
It  is  for  this  reason  that  I  have  dwelt  on  the  utter  absence  of 
intellectual  greatness  in  periods  of  national  decadence,  and  on 
the  universally  acknowledged  inliuence  of  general  conditions 
upon  the  flourishing  of  literature,  art,  and  science.  But  surely 
the  ordinary'  differences  in  these  conditions,  which  have  been 
uniformly  found  sufficient  wholly  to  prevent  the  emergence  of 
genius  among  men,  are  insignificant  in  comparison  with  the 
unfavorable  dillerence  which  has  always  existed  in  the  conditions 
surrounding  women,  in  every  direction  of  intellectual  eftort. 

A  final  word  as  to  the  importance  or  unimportance  of  the 
whole  discussion.  There  would  be  no  harm  in  leaving  the 
question  entirely  open ;  what  is  to  be  deplored  is  an  erroneous 
behef  that  it  has  been  settled.  In  a  matter  of  keen  human 
interest  —  however  unsubstantial  or  speculative  that  interest 
may  be  —  any  error  is  to  be  deplored,  simply  as  error.  But  in 
this  case  there  is  another  and  more  special  reason  for  regret. 


THE  INTELLECTUAL  POWERS  OF  WOMAN  289 

It  is  that  the  conclusion  which  I  have  been  engaged  in  con- 
troverting is  sure  to  be  understood  by  the  generality  of  people 
as  meaning  vastly  more  than  in  its  exact  terms  it  professes  to 
convey.  Even  those  who  are  not  "the  generality"  slide  im- 
perceptibly into  this  exaggeration  of  its  purport.  The  most 
that  could  be  claimed  as  shown  by  history,  even  were  the  con- 
siderations adduced  in  the  present  article  wholly  ignored,  would 
be  that  women  cannot  reach  the  highest  heights;  yet  we  see 
the  very  able  and  gifted  writer  of  the  article  to  which  this  is  a 
reply,  belittling  achievements  of  members  of  her  own  sex  which 
are  of  undeniable  greatness,  a  thing  which  can  hardly  be  as- 
cribed to  anything  else  than  the  bias  due  to  a  preconceived 
theory.  Whether  or  not  any  woman  can  be  as  great  as  the 
greatest  men,  it  is  quite  certain  that  some  women  can  be  as 
great  as  very  great  men ;   for  some  women  have  been. 

The  capacity  for  doing  excellent  work  in  the  most  difficult 
departments  of  university  study,  positive  experience  has  now 
shown  to  be  no  more  abnormal  among  women  than  among  men. 
Yet  we  see  surviving  to  our  own  day  —  and  probably,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  still  very  widely  entertained  —  the  notion 
that,  leaving  out  a  possible  lusus  naturcB  here  and  there,  women 
are  incapable  of  doing  high  university  work.  In  a  recent  num- 
ber of  a  prominent  Review,  I  find  a  Lecturer  on  History  in  the 
University  of  Cambridge  making  the  utterly  ridiculous  state- 
ment that  he  had  "never  seen  a  woman's  paper  equal  to  a 
man's";  which,  if  understood  literally,  would  mean  that  the 
ablest  of  the  women  whose  papers  have  ever  come  under  his 
eye  was  not  equal  to  the  most  stupid  of  the  men.  This  doubt- 
less is  not  what  he  meant  to  say,  but  the  expression  shows  the 
persistence  in  his  mind  of  an  utterly  baseless  belief  in  woman's 
essential  inferiority.  Any  one  whose  memory  extends  back 
twenty-five  years  will  remember  the  time  when  the  belief  was 
practically  universal  that  women  were  incapable  of  mastering 
the  higher  mathematics.  Go  back  a  little  farther,  and  we  find 
a  schoolmaster  in  one  of  the  principal  towns  of  Massachusetts 
set  down  as  a  visionary  because  he  proposed  to  undertake  to 
teach  girls  fractions,  A  century  ago  no  less  a  man  than  Kant 
u 


290  REFUTATfON 

dcclarod  the  unlitncss  o{  wonun  for  fho  study  of  geometry. 
"It  is  generally  believed  in  Germany,"  writes  Professor  Klein,' 
one  of  the  greatest  of  living  mathematicians,  "  that  mathematical 
studies  are  beyond  the  capacity  of  women";  but  he  assures  us 
that  the  women  who  have  attended  the  mathematical  course 
at  Gottingen  "have  constantly  shown  themselves  from  every 
jioint  of  xiew  as  able  as  their  male  competitors."  And  it  may 
be  remarked  that  the  mathematical  work  here  referred  to  is  as 
far  beyond  anything  that  was  taught  in  America  before  the 
opening  of  the  Johns  Hopkins  University  as  the  work  in  our 
best  colleges  in  those  days  was  beyond  that  of  a  country 
school. 

It  is  because  the  view  combated  in  this  article  not  only  is 
lacking  in  foundation,  but  tends  to  strengthen  the  hold  of 
beliefs  which  still  cling  to  the  majority  of  persons,  though  they 
have  been  amply  proved  to  be  erroneous,  that  I  feel  it  to  be 
important  that  it  should  be  opposed.  It  is  impossible  to  deter- 
mine the  relative  powers  of  men  and  women ;  it  will  be  long 
before  experience  can  show,  even  with  a  moderate  degree  of 
probability,  what  limits  there  may  be  to  the  possibilities  of 
woman  in  the  realm  of  intellect.  Let  us  not,  in  the  meanwhile, 
belittle  the  actual  work  of  women,  in  pursuance  of  a  baseless 
dogma  of  essential  inferiority.  Let  us  refrain,  for  instance, 
from  saying,  with  Mr.  Gosse,  that  women  cannot  write  poetry 
requiring  art  "because  they  lack  the  artistic  impulse,"  when  we 
know  not  only  that  they  have  written  such  poetry,  but  that 
paintings  like  those  of  Miss  Mary  Cassatt  or  Mme.  Demont- 
Breton,  not  to  speak  of  older  names,  show  the  possession  of  an 
extremely  high  artistic  impulse.  Let  Americans,  at  least,  not 
talk  glibly  of  women's  power  in  scientific  discovery  being  essen- 
tially inferior  to  men's,  until  such  time  as  some  American 
mathematician  receives  as  high  recognition  as  that  bestowed  by 
the  French  Academy  on  the  work  of  Sonia  Kovalewski,  the  judg- 
ment being  pronounced  without  knowledge  of  the  writer's  sex. 
Let  us  not  regard  the  results  of  women's  attempts  in  poetry  and 

•  "Les  Femmes  dans  la  Science."     By  A.  Rebiere,  Paris,  1897  (page  .318). 


THE  MATHEMATICIAN  AND   THE  ENGINEER         291 

music  as  utterly  fatal  to  aspirations  however  high,  when  we 
remember  that  our  country  has  thus  far  produced  neither  a 
great  composer  nor,  in  the  high  sense  of  the  word,  a  great  poet. 
Let  us  not  lay  too  great  stress  on  the  fact  that  "in  dramatic 
literature  no  woman  has  ever  gained  for  herself  any  lasting  fame," 
when  it  is  remembered  that  America  has  never  produced  a 
drama  of  even  moderate  excellence ;  while,  on  the  other  hand, 
I  find  Professor  Kuno  Francke,  of  Harvard,  saying  in  The  Nation 
a  few  weeks  ago,  of  a  drama  recently  written  by  a  German 
woman,  Gisela  von  Arnim,  the  wife  of  Hermann  Grimm,  that 
its  chief  scene  is  "one  of  the  most  affecting  in  dramatic  litera- 
ture," that  the  personages  of  the  play  are  "characters  of  genuine 
grandeur,"  and  that  in  it  the  longings  and  aspirations  of  the 
author  "have  found  a  supreme  poetic  expression."  In  a  word, 
as  to  what  woman  may  do  in  the  future,  let  us  frankly  acknowl- 
edge that  the  future  alone  can  decide,  the  experience  of  the 
past  being  far  too  slight  to  furnish  the  materials  for  a  forecast ; 
and  as  to  what  women  have  done  in  the  past,  or  are  doing  in 
the  present,  let  us  recognize  it  as  what  it  is,  and  not  as  what, 
in  accordance  with  an  unproved  generalization,  we  imagine  it 
must  of  necessity  be. 


THE   MATHEMATICIAN  AND   THE  ENGINEERS 

It  is  not  a  little  remarkable  that  the  pure  mathematician  still 
retains  a  very  exaggerated  view  of  the  value  of  the  services  he  is, 
in  the  immediate  present,  capable  of  rendering  to  the  practicing 
engineer.  What  the  value  of  his  researches  may  be  to  engineers 
of  a  future  generation  is  another  matter,  and  judging  from  past 
experience,  it  may  very  well  be  high ;  but  as  matters  stand,  there 
is  no  justification  whatever  for  such  a  claim  as  that  recently 
made  in  Nature  by  Mr.  D.  M.  Mair.  This  writer,  in  an  other- 
wise not  unfair  appreciation  of  the  actual  state  of  affairs,  makes 
the  following  statement :    "The  engineer  has  an  outfit  of  mathe- 

1  From  Engineering,  May  9,  1913. 


?92 


REFUTATION 


inatical  Uxils  suflicicnt  for  his  orciinan-  needs,  but  at  times  he 
meets  with  |)roblcms  lor  which  his  tO()ls  are  useless.  He  may 
then  spend  thousands  of  pounds  on  the  determination  of  some 
|x>int  which  tht  mathematician  could  have  settled  for  a  five- 
pound  note."  We  believe  that  this  belief  is  not  uncommon 
amonj^  mathematicians,  but  on  considering  the  many  ad\'ances 
made  in  engineering  during  the  past  twenty-five  years,  it  is  im- 
I)ossible  to  recall  a  single  instance  in  which  this  view  could  be 
e\en  partially  justified.  The  fact  is,  the  aid  of  the  mathema- 
tician is  not  wanted  until  the  engineer  by  hard  thinking  and  by 
careful  experiment  has  solved  in  some  fashion  the  problem  in 
view.  The  mathematician  may  then,  taking  the  engineer's 
coefBcients  and  experience  as  a  basis,  show  that  certain  methods 
of  calculation  may  be  shortened,  and  a  few  hours  may  thus  be 
saved  and  labor  economized.  The  earlier  of  the  builders  of 
continuous  girders,  for  example,  were,  we  believe,  unacquainted 
\\'ith  the  theorem  of  three  moments,  and  had  to  determine  the 
reactions  at  the  various  piers  by  a  more  or  less  tentative  process. 
Direct  methods,  of  which  the  theorem  of  three  moments  is  one, 
are  now  available,  by  the  use  of  which  a.  considerable  reduction 
may  be  made  in  the  amount  of  arithmetical  work  necessary. 

An  analogous  case  arose  some  little  time  ago,  when  a  firm 
found  it  necessar\'  to  calculate  the  critical  speed  of  the  rotor  of 
a  generator  on  the  assumption  that  the  direction  of  the  shaft 
was  fixed  at  each  bearing.  A  direct  solution  of  this  problem  is 
not,  of  course,  difficult,  but  actually  the  solution  was  found  by 
a  system  of  trial  and  error.  A  little  more  time  was  needed  than 
by  the  direct  process,  which  was  at  least  partially  compensated 
for  by  the  fact  that  each  successive  approximation  served  to 
check  the  accuracy  of  the  preceding  one. 

Even  in  this  matter  of  time-sa\ing,  however,  the  services  of 
the  mathematician,  pure  and  simple,  are  steadily  becoming  of 
less  and  less  immediate  importance,  since  the  average  engineer 
is  himself  acquiring  a  greater  and  greater  master>'  of  mathemati- 
cal methods,  and  he  has  the  great  advantage  of  realizing  much 
more  adequately  than  it  would  be  possible  for  an  "external" 
mathematician  'o  do,  the  physical  characteristics'ofth 3  problem 


THE  MATHEMATICIAN  AND   THE  ENGINEER         293 

by  which  he  is  confronted.  In  all  work  of  a  novel  character 
these  physical  considerations  provide,  in  fact,  the  only  check  on 
the  accuracy  and  adequacy  of  any  theory  proposed.  In  building 
the  Assuan  Dam,  for  example,  Sir  Benjamin  Baker  attributed 
much  less  importance  to  the  magnitude  of  the  stresses  calculated 
by  the  more  or  less  satisfactory  theory  available,  than  he  did  to 
the  possible  effect  of  the  incalculable  distortions  due  to  the  rapid 
changes  of  temperature  between  the  night  and  day.  On  this 
point  the  mathematician  could  afford  him  little  or  no  assistance, 
and  reliance  had  to  be  placed  wholly  on  conclusions  reached  as 
the  result  of  observation  and  experience. 

An  interesting  example,  which  illustrates  very  happily  the 
way  in  which  an  engineer  can  evade  at  need  the  purely  mathe- 
matical difficulties  of  his  problem,  is  afforded  by  the  early  his- 
tory of  electrical  distribution.  Here  the  electrical  engineer  was 
faced  with  the  problem  of  fixing  the  proportions  of  his  dis- 
tributing network.  Edison  was  probably  the  first  to  have  to  find 
a  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  and  the  mathematical  resources  of 
himself  and  his  assistants  were  insufficient  to  do  this  by  compu- 
tation. The  solution  of  the  problem  was  therefore  effected  by 
running  up  a  small  model  of  the  proposed  network,  and  deter- 
mining by  actual  measurement  the  conductivities  and  voltages 
required.  The  expense  was,  no  doubt,  a  little  greater  than 
would  now  be  involved  in  the  analytical  solution  of  the  problem, 
but  not  inordinately  so,  and  there  was  no  chance  of  the  numeri- 
cal errors  which  are  so  difl&cult  to  guard  against  when  the  experi- 
ence is  still  lacking  by  which  some  idea  may  be  obtained  as  to 
the  order  of  the  result  to  be  expected. 

Naval  architects,  again,  inform  us  that  the  hydro-mechanics 
of  the  mathematician  have  so  far  been  of  extremely  little  service 
in  ship  construction  and  in  propeller  design.  The  general  ideas 
of  stream-line  motion  and  the  like  have,  no  doubt,  proved  of 
great  service,  but  the  engineer  has  quite  as  good  a  grasp  of  these 
general  principles  as  has  the  average  mathematician,  and  he  has 
sufficient  knowledge  of  the  methods  of  the  latter  to  apply  these 
to  the  fullest  extent  justified  by  the  actual  nature  of  the  problem 
presented  to  him.     In  a  similar  way,  all  the  many  problems 


J  1)4  REFUTATION 

presented  by  the  Brennan  mono-rail  system,  in  which  the  stabil- 
ity of  the  car  was  secured  by  a  gyroscope,  were  worked  out  by 
mathematical  methods,  but  not  by  i)rofessional  mathematicians. 

In  fact,  when  the  latter  attempt  to  advise  engineers,  their 
suggestions  are  often  singularly  unwise.  It  was  a  mathemati- 
cian of  recognized  standing  who  proposed  to  determine  the 
stresses  in  a  masonry  dam  by  dilTerentiating  a  curve  experimen- 
tally determined  and  known  to  be  on  the  average  some  twenty 
per  cent  in  error  from  point  to  point,  so  that  the  probable  errors 
in  the  values  obtained  by  diflerentiation  might  well  be  as  much 
as  one  hundred  per  cent.  Sixty  years  ago  conditions,  no  doubt, 
were  difTerent,  and  the  services  of  Lord  Kelvin  proved  of  the 
greatest  advantage  to  the  establishment  of  trans-Atlantic  te- 
legraphy. Lord  Kehin,  however,  had  to  make  himself  into  an 
engineer  in  order  that  his  services  might  be  ellective,  and,  in 
fact,  he  always  viewed  physical  problems  very  much  from  the 
engineer's  standpoint.  His  article  on  "Elasticity"  in  the  Ninth 
Edition  of  the  Encyclopedia  Britaiwica,  for  instance,  treats  the 
subject  in  a  way  which  contrasts  most  remarkably  with  the  cor- 
resi)onding  article  in  the  new  edition,  which  is  due  to  a  very  emi- 
nent and  competent  mathematician.  Kelvin's  article  can  still 
be  read  with  profit  by  the  engineer,  and  in  it  many  views,  gener- 
ally considered  modern  and  attributed  to  other  writers,  are 
most  suggestively  and  interestingly  set  forth. 

Mr.  Mair,  in  the  article  to  w-hich  reference  has  already  been 
made,  suggests  that  it  is  for  the  mathematician  to  hold  out  the 
olive  branch  to  the  engineer  and  to  say  :  "  Yes,  we  have  often 
enough  given  you  reason  for  thinking  us  fools ;  but  we  think  we 
can  help  you  this  time.  Only  let  us  try ;  if  we  fail,  you  are  no 
worse  otT  than  before."  The  frank  confession  with  which  this 
appeal  begins  goes  far  to  disarm  criticism ;  but  the  trouble  is 
that,  in  practically  every  case,  once  the  engineer  has  reduced 
his  problem  to  a  state  in  which  the  mathematician  can  help  him, 
the  value  of  the  assistance  possible  has  shrunk  to  somewhat 
insignificant  proportions.  When  Mr.  Marconi  and  Professor 
Ewing  were  initiating  wireless  telegraphy  across  the  Atlantic, 
help  from  the  professional  mathematician  would  have  been  most 


THE   MATHEMATICIAN  AND   THE  ENGINEER  295 

welcome,  but  the  latter  was  not  in  a  position  to  afford  it.  Even 
had  the  purely  mathematical  aspect  of  the  problem  been  com- 
pletely solved,  the  coefficients  involved  were  unknown,  and  could 
only  be  guessed  at  by  general  considerations,  as  to  which  the 
mathematician's  judgment  was  much  more  likely  to  be  at  fault 
than  that  of  men  who  were  compelled  to  concentrate  their  atten- 
tion on  the  physical  aspects  of  the  problem  involved. 

It  is  noteworthy  that  the  fallacy  that  physics  is  merely  a 
branch  of  mathematics  is  still  held  by  many.  It  was  in  protest 
against  this  view  that  Faraday  published  his  Experimental 
Researches  in  Electricity;  but  in  an  interesting  paper  read  at 
the  recent  International  Congress  of  Mathematicians,  Miss 
Gwatkin,  of  Newnham,  contends  yet  again  that  "physics  is,  of 
course,  the  science  which  is  entirely  based  on  mathematics." 
This  is,  we  believe,  a  totally  erroneous  view,  both  actually  and 
historically.  The  cases  are  exceedingly  few  in  which  the  mathe- 
matician has  anticipated  the  experimenter,  and  in  the  future,  as 
in  the  past,  physics  will  in  the  main  be  based  on  experiment  and 
intuition,  checked  by  the  aid  of  mathematics. 

Another  claim  in  the  paper  referred  to  was  that  the  study  of 
mathematics  involved  the  development  of  the  logical  faculty, 
and  this,  no  doubt,  is  true.  Unfortunately,  however,  experience 
has  shown  that  the  logically-minded  man  is  by  no  means  neces- 
sarily the  one  whose  judgment  in  the  practical  matters  of  life 
is  the  least  at  fault.  A  keen  appreciation  of  the  third  part  of  a 
syllogism  may,  and  frequently  is,  accompanied  by  a  certain  reck- 
lessness as  to  the  sufficiency  of  the  major  and  minor  premises  of 
the  complete  argument.  Young  men  of  necessity  have  to  base 
their  actions  largely  on  logical  deductions  from  general  principles, 
whilst  older  men  trust  mainly  to  their  experience.  Nine  times 
out  of  ten  the  non-logical  mental  processes  of  the  latter  prove 
to  be  the  more  trustworthy.  On  the  tenth  or  the  hundredth 
time  past  experience  may  be  falsified,  and  the  younger  genera- 
tion may,  as  a  consequence,  give  civilization  a  further  push  for- 
ward. Russell  may  be  quite  right  in  claiming  that  "one  of  the 
chief  ends  served  by  mathematics  is  to  awaken  the  learner's  be- 
lief in  reason,  his  confidence  in   the  truth  of  what  has  been 


296  REFUTATION 

demonstrated,  ami  in  the  value  of  demonstrations."  In  no  case, 
liDWover,  can  a  conclusion  thus  derived  be  more  unassailable 
than  the  premises  on  which  it  is  based ;  and  in  the  practical 
allairs  of  life  the  real  difficulty  is  not  the  deduction  of  conclusions, 
but  the  establishment  of  adequate  premises.  For  this  reason  it 
might  fairly  be  claimed  that  a  study  of  the  scientific  aspect  of 
engineering  should  prove  a  highly  valuable  portion  of  a  liberal 
education,  and  tliis  feature  was  emphasized  in  a  suggestive  paper 
contributed  to  the  Mathematical  Congress  by  Professor  Bertram 
Hopkinson.  The  engineer  has  always  to  check  his  computations 
by  his  common  sense.  If  the  two  lead  to  contrary-  conclusions, 
and  the  calculation  is  free  from  arithmetical  errors,  the  probabil- 
ity is  that  some  essential  factor  has  been  neglected  in  the  premises 
forming  the  basis  of  the  deduction.  At  ever>'  point  the  engineer 
has  therefore  to  ask  not  merely  "Is  my  logical  method  unassail- 
able ?  "  but  "  Is  my  result  such  as  I  should  anticipate  from  general 
considerations?"  It  would  be  certainly  highly  advantageous 
if  our  enthusiastic  social  reformers,  who  propose  by  legisla- 
tion to  construct  Utopias  of  one  form  or  another,  could  be 
brought  to  view  political  problems  by  the  methods  of  the  engi- 
neer. To  ask  themselves  at  each  step  not  if  their  deductions 
followed  logically  from  their  premises,  but,  rather,  did  experience 
and  the  history  of  mankind  in  the  past  give  reason  for  the  belief 
that  this  or  that  proposal  will  work  in  practice  ?  Unfortunately, 
however,  even  an  engineer's  training  will  not  ensure  that  a  man 
shall  apply  the  engineer's  methods  in  other  departments  of  his 
activities,  men  being  curiously  prone  to  form  mental  water- 
tight compartments. 

POPULAR   CONTROL  OF   NATIONAL  WEALTH  ^ 

O.  C.  Barber 

Summing  it  all  up  briefly,  we  should  have  for  our  own  imme- 
diate welfare  and  to  insure  posterity  against  conditions  which 
will  impose  excessive  and  inevitable  hardship :    Government 

*  From  The  Outlook,  July  ig,  1913.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


POPULAR  CONTROL  OF  NATIONAL   WEALTH  297 

ownership  of  the  railways,  the  express  and  telegraph  companies, 
the  coal,  phosphate,  and  potash  lands,  a  more  extensive  reserva- 
tion of  timber  lands,  and  a  speedy  cessation  of  the  practice  of 
granting  water  power  franchises  without  the  stipulation  of  rigid 
Government  supervision. 

What  would  be  the  immediate  results  ? 

Transportation.  By  taking  over  the  railway,  express,  and 
telegraph  companies,  Uncle  Sam  could  furnish,  at  greatly  re- 
duced rates,  a  vastly  improved  freight,  express,  and  telegraph 
service  with  a  saving  of  more  than  a  million  dollars  a  day.  The 
natural  economies  of  the  centralization  of  management,  the 
elimination  of  duplication  of  duties,  and  the  purchase  and  dis- 
tribution of  suppHes  would  speedily  effect  this.  Consequent 
improvements  in  roadbed  and  equipment  would  materially  re- 
duce the  present  awful  death  toll.  And  the  rights  of  way  would 
furnish  broad  highways,  already  at  grade,  for  the  underground 
gas  mains  and  telegraph  and  electric  power  conduits. 

Coal.  Controlling  the  coal  lands.  Uncle  Sam  might  lease 
them  for  operation  at  private  hands  under  strict  regulations 
which  would  enforce  the  taking  of  every  precaution  to  save 
human  life,  limit  the  output  to  actual  needs,  require  in  coke  pro- 
duction the  adoption  of  Scientific  methods  for  the  saving  of  the 
now  wasted  by-products  worth  millions  annually,  reduce  prices 
all  around,  and  eventually  pro\dde  for  the  conversion  of  all  coal 
into  gas  for  fuel  purposes  in  every  section  where  the  plan  could 
be  employed  successfully.  Or  he  might  operate  the  mines  to 
this  same  end. 

Such  ownership  and  operation  of  the  railways  and  coal  mines 
would  put  an  end  to  the  disastrous  strikes  which  periodically 
result  from  wage  disagreements  between  coal  operators  and 
miners  and  railway  companies  and  their  employees. 

Timber.  With  an  extended  forest  reserve  Uncle  Sam  could 
insure  the  timber  resources  against  early  exhaustion  and  at  the 
same  time  market  annually  sufficient  timber  from  these  reserves 
at  such  prices  and  under  such  conditions  as  would  preclude  the 
further  increased  gouging  of  the  people  by  the  lumber  monopoly. 

Water  Power.     All  future  water  power  franchises  would  be 


29S  REFUTATION  AND  CONCLUSION 

granted  under  conditions  which  wouhl  make  impossible  any 
aniai^aniation  of  these  interests  and  would  retain  for  the  Govern- 
ment the  rii^ht  to  reguhite  rates,  terminate  all  franchises  within 
a  reasonable  time,  and  provide  for  periodical  revaluations. 

Agruiilturc.  For  the  farmer  Uncle  Sam  might  work  wonders. 
Owning  the  phosphate  beds,  he  could  reduce  present  prices  at  least 
two-thirds.  By  de\'eloi>ing  the  potash  deposits,  and  evolving  a 
practical  method  of  extracting  potash  from  the  Pacific  coast  sea- 
weed, the  alunite  veins  of  the  West,  and  the  granites  of  the  East 
and  South,  relief  would  be  insured  from  the  German  monopoly 
which  now  charges  a  price  four  times  greater  than  the  cost  of 
potash  production  and  delivery  at  Atlantic  coast  ports.  As 
for  nitrate,  the  scientifically  operated  coke  ovens  w^ould  provide 
$20,000,000  worth  a  year,  seventy-five  per  cent  of  which  now 
goes  to  waste. 

All  of  which  looks  good. 

Now,  the  paramount  objection  to  any  or  all  of  this  seems  to 
be  a  fear  in  the  public  mind  that  successful  operation  would  be 
impossible  at  the  hands  of  the  Government.  The  railways 
sowed  and  cultivated  this  belief  in  the  old  days  when  Govern- 
ment ownership  was  first  being  discussed  and  stock-watering 
was  much  better  than  it  is  now.  This  fear  took  root  and  has 
grown  ever  since  despite  the  fact  that  public  ownership  under 
the  direction  of  municipalities  is  being  vindicated  at  every  hand. 

Somehow  the  public  appears  to  forget  the  smooth-running 
departmental  w'ork  of  the  Government  which  disburses  more 
than  three  quarters  of  a  billion  dollars  annually  with  so  little 
fuss  that  the  people  aren't  even  interested.  At  the  top  of  the 
list  is  the  Post-OfUce  Department,  which  expends  about  $250,- 
000,000  and  is  fast  becoming  self-supporting.  Then  a  little 
$400,000,000  job  like  building  the  Panama  Canal,  wdthout  a 
hitch  or  a  hint  at  graft,  inspires  no  confidence  whatever  in  Uncle 
Sam's  ability  to  do  big  things  in  a  big  w^ay.     Queer,  isn't  it  ? 

Every  time  Government  ow-nership  is  mentioned  some  railway 
attorney  bobs  up  and  calls  attention  to  Article  V  of  the  Amend- 
ments to  the  Federal  Constitution  providing  that  citizens  may 
not  be  deprived  of  their  property  for  public  use  without  due 


POPULAR  CONTROL  OF  NATIONAL   WEALTH 


299 


process  of  law  and  just  compensation.  Then  he  sits  back  and 
smiles  complacently,  as  if  that  settled  the  whole  proposition  by 
forever  barring  it. 

Of  course  Uncle  Sam  wouldn't  think  for  a  moment  of  flatly 
confiscating  any  of  these  properties.  Neither  would  the  long- 
sufifering  public  expect  nor  demand  that.  No  one  would  object 
to  the  allowance  of  a  just  compensation,  save  perhaps  the  present 
owners.  But  it  would  be  the  particular  duty  of  the  Govern- 
ment to  see  that  the  compensation  was  just  and  no  more. 

Other  countries  do  these  things  quite  readily.  Twenty-odd 
years  ago  New  Zealand  was  parcelled  off  in  huge  landed  estates 
inhabited  mostly  by  sheep.  The  Government  wanted  farms  for 
the  rapidly  increasing  influx  of  immigrants,  but  the  landowners 
refused  to  sell.  So  the  Government  simply  had  passed  an  act 
permitting  it  to  use  public  funds  to  purchase  estates  to  be  thrown 
open  to  settlement,  then  went  out  and  took  the  lands  and  arbi- 
trated the  cjuestion  of  valuation.  The  Government  and  prop- 
erty-owner each  named  an  arbitrator,  these  two  naming  the  third 
and  the  trio  fixing  the  values.  To  their  final  valuation  the 
Government  added  five  per  cent,  and  the  landowner  was  com- 
pelled to  accept  the  award  whether  it  suited  him  or  not.  He 
was  a  bar  to  the  public  welfare  and  the  Government  summarily 
removed  him. 

A  present-day  example  was  the  taking  over  last  year  by  the 
British  Government  of  the  telephone  systems  in  England.  Late 
in  191 1  Parliament  decided  that  the  Government  should  conduct 
the  business.  So  on  January  i,  1912,  the  Post-Office  Depart- 
ment quietly  took  charge  of  the  stations,  apparatus,  operation, 
business  —  everything.  This  action  incited  no  revolution. 
The  question  of  valuation  was  referred  to  the  Railway  and  Canal 
Commission  by  agreement  between  the  Government  and  the 
telephone  companies,  the  latter  asking  approximately  twenty- 
one  million  pounds  for  their  properties.  After  a  hearing  lasting 
seventy-two  days  the  Commission  awarded  them  twelve  and  a 
half  million  pounds.  A  little  difference  of  forty-odd  million 
dollars ;  but  the  companies  probably  will  accept  the  finding,  and 
there  the  matter  will  end. 


3do  REIVrATIOX  AND  CONCLUSION 

'Vhv  way  will  he  easy  enough  for  Uncle  Sam  once  the  people 
voice  an  rmphatic  demand  that  it  be  done. 

FiiKincint^  the  {proposition  should  be  the  easiest  part  of  it. 
There  are  millions  of  stock.in<!;s  in  the  homes  of  people  in  moder- 
ate circumstances  that  are  holding  dollars  instead  of  feet.  This 
army  of  savers  is  largely  without  business  interests  or  experience. 
Many  of  them  distrust  the  banks.  Three  per  cent  Government 
bonds  would  appeal  strongly  to  them  as  an  investment.  Issued 
in  small  denominations,  they  would  serve  as  an  ideal  savings  bank 
for  the  workingman.  In  France,  where  Government  bonds  are 
sold  directly  to  the  people,  every  issue  is  invariably  over-sub- 
scribed.    The  demand  would  be  just  as  keen  with  us. 

The  trouble  in  America  has  always  been,  not  only  with  the 
corporations  but  with  the  Government,  that  the  bondholding 
class  has  been  made  too  exclusive.  Corporation  bond  issues 
usually  carry  a  stipulated  minimum  of  subscription.  With  the 
railways  this  minimum  has  been  placed  occasionally  as  high  as 
$10,000.  A  fine  opportunity  for  the  widows  and  orphans  and 
the  ordinary  workingman  !  The  denomination  of  Uncle  Sam's 
smallest  bond  is  S25.  It  should  be  Sio.  Then  all  of  us  might 
have  a  Httle  certificate  of  ownership  in  our  Government.  We 
could  buy  them  at  the  post-office  just  as  we  do  a  special  delivery 
stamp.  With  small  denomination  bonds  and  direct  sale  to  the 
people  these  projects  could  be  financed  without  the  country  ever 
feeling  it. 

But  before  anything  can  be  done  the  people  must  be  thor- 
oughly aroused  to  the  situation  which  confronts  us.  This  preva- 
lent National  disregard  of  the  future  must  be  put  aside  for  a 
new  policy  of  aggressive,  far-seeing  governmental  activity. 

We  must  provide  against  the  future  if  the  United  States  is  to 
fulfil  its  manifest  destiny  and  prove  to  the  world  that  the  demo- 
cratic Republic,  of  the  people,  for  the  people,  and  by  the  people, 
is  the  ideal  form  of  government,  insuring  freedom  in  its  widest 
sense  and  forever  wiping  out  tyranny,  whether  official,  industrial, 
or  monopolistic. 

Think  it  over,  my  fellow-countrymen.  It  will  be  for  you  to 
say  what  is  to  be  done  much  sooner  than  you  realize. 


ADDRESS  AT  SWARTHMORE  COLLEGE  30F 

5.   Persuasion 
ADDRESS   AT  SWARTHMORE   COLLEGE 

WooDROw  Wilson 

Your  Excellency,  Mr.  Clothier,  Mr.  President:  That 
greeting  sounds  very  familiar,  and  I  am  reminded  of  an  anecdote 
told  of  that  good  artist,  but  better  wit,  Oliver  Herford.  On  one 
occasion,  being  seated  at  his  club  at  lunch,  a  man  whose  manners 
he  did  not  veiy  much  relish  came  up  to  him  and  slapped  liim  on 
the  back  and  said,  "Hello,  Ollie,  old  boy,  how  are  you?"  He 
looked  up  at  the  man  somewhat  coldly,  and  said,  "I  don't  know 
your  name  and  I  don't  know  your  face,  but  your  manners  are 
very  familiaro"  The  manners  exemplified  in  that  cheer  are 
delightfully  va,Liiliar. 

I  find  mj^sslf  unaffectedly  embarrassed  to-day.  I  want  to 
say,  in  sincere  compliment,  that  I  do  not  like  to  attempt  an 
extemporaneous  address  following  so  finished  an  orator  as  the 
one  who  has  just  taken  his  seat.  Moreover,  I  am  somewhat  con- 
fused as  to  my  identity.  I  am  told  by  psychologists  that  I 
would  not  know  who  I  am  to-day  if  I  did  not  remember  who  I 
was  yesterday;  but  when  I  recollect  that  yesterday  I  was  a 
college  president,  that  does  not  assist  me  in  establishing  my 
identity  to-day.  On  the  contrary,  this  very  presence,  the  char- 
acter of  this  audience,  this  place  with  its  academic  memories,  all 
combine  to  remind  me  that  the  greater  part  of  my  active  life 
has  been  spent  in  companies  like  this,  and  it  will  be  difficult  for 
me  in  what  follows  of  this  address  to  keep  out  of  the  old  ruts  of 
admonition  which  I  have  been  accustomed  to  follow  in  the  role 
of  college  president. 

No  one  can  stand  in  the  presence  of  a  gathering  like  this,  on  a 
day  suggesting  the  memories  which  this  day  suggests,  without 
asking  himself  what  a  college  is  for.  There  have  been  times 
when  I  have  suspected  that  certain  undergraduates  did  not  know. 
I  remember  that  in  days  of  discouragement  as  a  teacher  I  grate- 

1  Delivered  October  25,  igi3. 

LIBRARY 

STATPTEACHERSC-L'EnE 
gA,.TA  BARBARA^  CALIFORNIA 

,J.3.1j>.ja '^ 


302  PERSUASION 

fully  recalled  the  sympathy  of  a  frieinl  of  mine  in  the  Yale  faculty 
who  said  that  after  twenty  years  of  teaching  he  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  human  mind  had  infinite  resources  for  re- 
sisting the  introduction  of  knowledge.  Yet  I  have  my  serious 
doubts  as  to  whether  the  main  object  of  a  college  is  the  introduc- 
tion of  knowledge.  It  may  be  the  transmission  of  knowledge 
through  the  human  system,  but  not  much  of  it  sticks.  Its 
introduction  is  temporary ;  it  is  for  the  discipline  of  the  hour. 
Most  of  what  a  man  learns  in  college  he  assiduously  forgets 
afterwards.  Not  because  he  purposes  to  forget  it,  but  l)ccause 
the  crowding  events  of  the  days  that  follow  seem  somehow  to 
eliminate  it. 

What  a  man  ought  never  to  forget  with  regard  to  a  college  is 
that  it  is  a  nursery  of  principle  and  of  honor.  I  cannot  help 
thinking  of  William  Penn  as  a  sort  of  spiritual  knight  who  went 
cut  upon  his  adventures  to  carry  the  torch  that  had  been  put  in 
his  hands,  so  that  other  men  might  have  the  path  illuminated 
for  them  which  led  to  justice  and  to  liberty.  I  cannot  admit 
that  a  man  establishes  his  right  to  call  himself  a  college  graduate 
by  showing  me  his  diploma.  The  only  way  he  can  prove  it  is 
by  showing  that  his  eyes  are  lifted  to  some  horizon  which  other 
men  less  instructed  than  he  have  not  been  privileged  to  see.  Un- 
less he  carries  freight  of  the  spirit  he  has  not  been  bred  where 
spirits  are  bred. 

This  man  Penn,  representing  the  sweet  enterprise  of  the  quiet 
and  powerful  sect  that  called  themselves  Friends,  proved  his 
right  to  the  title  by  being  the  friend  of  mankind.  He  crossed  the 
ocean,  not  merely  to  establish  estates  in  America,  but  to  set  up  a 
free  commonwealth  in  America  and  to  show  that  he  w^as  of  the 
lineage  of  those  who  had  been  bred  in  the  best  traditions  of  the 
human  spirit.  I  would  not  be  interested  in  celebrating  the  mem- 
ory of  William  Penn  if  his  conquest  had  been  merely  a  material 
one.  Sometimes  we  have  been  laughed  at  —  by  foreigners  in 
particular  —  for  boasting  of  the  size  of  the  American  Continent, 
the  size  of  our  own  domain  as  a  nation  ;  for  they  have,  naturally 
enough,  suggested  that  we  did  not  make  it.  But  I  claim  that 
every  race  and  every  man  is  as  big  as  the  thing  that  he  takes 


ADDRESS  AT  SWARTHMORE  COLLEGE  303 

possession  of,  and  that  the  size  of  America  is  in  some  sense  a 
standard  of  the  size  and  capacity  of  the  American  people.  And 
yet  the  mere  extent  of  the  American  conquest  is  not  what  gives 
America  distinction  in  the  annals  of  the  world,  but  the  professed 
purpose  of  the  conquest,  which  was  to  see  to  it  that  every  foot 
of  this  land  should  be  the  home  of  free,  self-governed  people,  who 
should  have  no  government  whatever  which  did  not  rest  upon 
the  consent  of  the  governed.  I  would  like  to  believe  that  all  this 
hemisphere  is  devoted  to  the  same  sacred  purpose,  and  that  no- 
where can  any  government  endure  which  is  stained  by  blood  or 
supported  by  anything  but  the  consent  of  the  governed. 

The  spirit  of  Penn  will  not  be  stayed.  You  cannot  set  limits 
to  such  knightly  adventurers.  After  their  own  day  is  gone,  their 
spirits  stalk  the  world,  carrying  inspiration  everywhere  that  they 
go  and  reminding  men  of  the  lineage,  the  fine  lineage,  of  those 
who  have  sought  justice  and  right.  It  is  no  small  matter,  there- 
fore, for  a  college  to  have  as  its  patron  saint  a  man  who  went  out 
upon  such  a  conquest.  What  I  would  like  to  ask  you  young 
people  to-day  is :  How  many  of  you  have  devoted  yourselves  to 
the  like  adventure  ?  How  many  of  you  will  volunteer  to  carry 
these  spiritual  messages  of  liberty  to  the  world  ?  How  many  of 
you  will  forego  anything  except  your  allegiance  to  that  which  is 
just  and  that  which  is  right?  We  die  but  once,  and  we  die 
without  distinction  if  we  are  not  willing  to  die  the  death  of  sacri- 
fice. Do  you  covet  honor?  You  will  never  get  it  by  serving 
yourself.  Do  you  covet  distinction?  You  will  get  it  only  as 
the  servant  of  mankind  Do  not  forget,  then,  as  you  walk  these 
classic  places,  why  you  are  here.  You  are  not  here  merely  to 
prepare  to  make  a  living.  You  are  here  in  order  to  enable  the 
world  to  live  more  amply,  with  greater  vision,  with  a  finer  spirit 
of  hope  and  achievement.  You  are  here  to  enrich  the  world, 
and  you  impoverish  yourself  if  you  forget  the  errand. 

It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  no  great  difference  between  the 
ideals  of  the  college  and  the  ideals  of  the  State.  Can  you  not 
translate  the  one  into  the  other  ?  Men  have  not  had  to  come  to 
college,  let  me  remind  you,  to  quaff  the  fountains  of  this  inspira- 
tion.    You  are  merely  more  privileged  than  they.     Men  out  of 


304 


PERSUASION 


cvt-ry  walk  of  life,  men  without  advantages  of  any  kind,  have  seen 
tlie  vision,  and  you,  with  it  written  Uirge  upon  every  jjage  of  your 
studies,  are  the  more  bhnd  if  you  do  not  see  it  when  it  is  pointed 
out.  Vou  could  not  be  forgiven  for  overlooking  it.  'I'hey  might 
have  been.  But  they  did  not  await  instruction.  They  simply 
drew  the  breath  of  hfe  into  their  lungs,  felt  the  aspirations  that 
must  come  to  every  human  soul,  looked  out  upon  their  brothers, 
and  felt  their  pulses  beat  as  their  fellows'  beat,  and  then  sought 
by  counsel  and  action  to  move  forward  to  common  ends  that 
would  be  crowned  with  honor  and  achievement.  This  is  the 
only  glory  of  America.  Let  every  generation  of  Swarthmore 
men  and  women  add  to  the  strength  of  that  lineage  and  the  glory 
of  that  crown  of  life  ! 

ADDRESS  AT   GETTYSBURG 

Abraham  Lincoln 

Fourscore  and  seven  years  ago  our  fathers  brought  forth  on 
this  continent  a  new  nation,  conceived  in  liberty,  and  dedicated 
to  the  proposition  that  all  men  are  created  equal. 

Now  we  are  engaged  in  a  great  civil  w^ar,  testing  whether  that 
nation  or  any  nation  so  conceived  and  so  dedicated,  can  long 
endure.  We  are  met  on  a  great  battlefield  of  that  war.  We 
have  come  to  dedicate  a  portion  of  that  field  as  a  final  resting- 
place  for  those  who  here  gave  their  lives  that  that  nation  might 
Hve.     It  is  altogether  fitting  and  proper  that  we  should  do  this. 

But  in  a  larger  sense,  we  cannot  dedicate  —  we  cannot  conse- 
crate —  we  cannot  hallow  this  ground.  The  brave  men,  living 
and  dead,  who  struggled  here,  have  consecrated  it  far  above  our 
poor  power  to  add  or  detract.  The  world  will  little  note  nor  long 
remember  what  we  say  here,  but  it  can  never  forget  what  they 
did  here.  It  is  for  us,  the  living,  rather,  to  be  dedicated  here  to 
the  unfinished  work  which  they  who  fought  here  have  thus  far 
so  nobly  advanced.  It  is  rather  for  us  to  be  here  dedicated  to 
the  great  task  remaining  before  us  —  that  from  these  honored 
dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to  that  cause  for  which  they 


ADDRESS  AT  GETTYSBURG  305 

gave  the  last  full  measure  of  devotion ;  that  we  here  highly  re- 
solve that  these  dead  shall  not  have  died  in  vain ;  that  this 
nation,  under  God,  shall  have  a  new  birth  of  freedom ;  and  that 
government  of  the  people,  by  the  people,  for  the  people,  shall  not 
perish  from  the  earth. 


II.    B.   ELEMENTS   IN   COMBINATION 

THE   MONROE  DOCTRINE:   ITS  LIMITATIONS   AND 
IMPLICATIONS 

Resolved  that  the  United  States  should  continue  to  maintain  the 
principles  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  properly  understood  and  limited. 

Introduction 

I.  The  Monroe  Doctrine  was  announced  ninety  years  ago  by  Presi- 
dent Monroe  in  a  message  to  Congress. 

A.  It  declared  that  any  effort  on  the  part  of  a  European  govern- 

ment to  force  its  poUtical  system  upon  a  people  of  this 
hemisphere,  or  to  oppress  it,  would  affect  the  safety  of  the 
United  States  and  would  be  inimical  to  her  interests. 
I.  It  was  feared  at  that  time  that  the  Holy  .\lliance  would 
attempt  to  assist  Spain  in  reconquering  the  newly  liber- 
ated South  American  republics. 

B.  It  declared  also  that  colonization  by  any  European  govern- 

ment of  any  part  of  the  two  American  continents,  all  of 
which  was  held  to  be  within  the  lawful  jurisdiction  of  some 
government,  would  be  equally  objectionable. 
I.  Russia  was  claiming  control  over  territory  on  the  north- 
west coast  of  North  America  to  which  the  United  States 
then  asserted  title. 

C.  It  did  not  purpose  to  interfere  with  Spain's  effort  to  regain 

her  lost  colonies,  or  with  the  continued  exercise  of  jurisdic- 
tion by  European  governments  over  any  colonies  or  terri- 
tories which  they  then  held  in  America. 

D.  The  Monroe  Doctrine  is  a  policy  of  the  United  States  ano 

not  an  obligation  of  international  law  binding  upon  any 
of  the  countries  affected,  either  European  or  American. 

E.  It  does  not  even  involve  an  obligation  on  the  part  of  the  United 

States  to  enforce  it. 

306 


THE  MONROE  DOCTRINE  307 

II.   The  principles  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  have  been  enforced  on 
many  occasions. 

A.  Webster,  as  Secretary  of  State,  blocked  an  agreement  by 

England,  France,  and  Spain  for  the  disposal  of  Cuba,  say- 
ing that  we  coilld  not  consent  to  the  ownership  of  the  island 
by  any  other  power  than  Spain. 

B.  President  Polk  advised  the  insurrectos  in  Yucatan  that  we 

could  not  consent  to  a  transfer  of  dominion  and  sovereignty 
either  to  Spain,  Great  Britain,  or  any  other  power. 
C    After  the  Civil  War,  Secretary  of  State  Seward  forced  France 
to  withdraw  her  troops  from  Mexico,  where  an  Empire  had 
been  set  up  under  Maximilian. 

D.  President  Grant,  in  sending  the  Santo  Domingo  treaty  to  the 

Senate,  announced  that  thereafter  no  territory  on  theconti- 
nent  should  be  regarded  as  subject  to  transfer  to  a  European 
power,  and  that  this  was  in  adherence  to  the  Monroe  Doc- 
trine as  a  measure  of  national  protection. 

E.  Finally,    in   the   Venezuela  boundary  dispute   with  Great 

Britain  during  Cleveland's  administration,  Mr.  Olney 
asserted:  "To-day  the  United  States  is  practically  sover- 
eign on  this  continent,  and  its  fiat  is  law  upon  the  subjects 
to  which  it  confines  its  interposition." 

F.  England  prompted  the  original  declaration  of  the  Doctrine, 

and  English  statesmen  while  in  oiiice  have  frequently 
declared  that  they  do  not  object  to  its  maintenance. 

G.  Other  European  governments,  though  not  openly  acquiescing, 

have  never  insisted  on  violating  the  Doctrine  when  the 
question  came  up. 
III.   Those  who  are  opposed  to  the  maintenance  of  the  Monroe  Doc- 
trine contend  that 

A.  The  Doctrine  is  obsolete. 

B.  That  it  pretends  to  keep  under  its  tutelage  powerful  and 

self-sustaining  nations  like  the  Argentine  republic,  Brazil, 
and  Chile. 

C.  That  it  is  an  assertion  of  suzerainty  by  the  United  States  over 

both  continents. 

D.  That  it  creates  ill  feeling  in  our  Latin-American  neighbors 

and  so  injures  our  trade  relations  with  them. 


T,oS  ELEMESTS  IS   COMBIXATIO.X 

TlIK   MONROE   DOCTRINE:  ITS   LIMITATIONS  AND 
IMPLICATIONS  1 

William  II.  Taft 

It  is  now  ninety  years  since  what  the  world  has  always  called 
the  Monroe  Doctrine  was  announced  by  President  Monroe  in 
a  message  to  Congress.  It  was  a  declaration  to  the  world  that 
any  effort  on  the  part  of  a  European  government  to  force  its 
political  system  upon  a  people  of  this  hemisphere,  or  to  oppress  it, 
would  affect  the  safety  of  the  United  States  and  would  be  inimi- 
cal to  her  interests,  and  further  that  the  subjecting  to  coloniza- 
tion by  any  European  government  of  any  part  of  the  t'.YO 
American  continents,  all  of  which  was  held  to  be  within  the 
lawful  jurisdiction  of  some  government,  would  be  equally  objec- 
tionable. The  first  part  of  the  declaration  was  prompted  by 
the  fear  that  the  then  Holy  Alliance  of  Russia,  Prussia,  Austria, 
and  France  would  attempt  to  assist  Spain  in  reconquering  the 
Central  and  South  American  republics  that  had  revolted  from 
Spain  and  set  up  independent  governments  which  had  been  rec- 
ognized by  the  United  States.  The  other  part,  against  coloniza- 
tion, was  prompted  by  certain  claims  that  Russia  was  making  to 
control  over  territory'  on  the  northwest  coast  of  North  America, 
to  which  the  United  States  then  asserted  title.  There  was  ex- 
pressly excepted  from  the  Doctrine  thus  announced  any  pur- 
pose to  interfere  with  Spain's  effort  to  regain  her  lost  colonies, 
or  the  continued  exercise  of  jurisdiction  by  European  govern- 
ments over  any  colonies  or  territories  which  they  then  had  in 
America. 

I  have  not  time  to  give  the  details  of  the  instances  in  which  the 
President,  representing  our  country  in  its  foreign  relations, 
found  it  necessary  to  insist  upon  compliance  with  the  Monroe 
Doctrine.  \Mien  ^Mr.  Webster  was  Secretary  of  State,  on  behalf 
of  our  Government  he  declined  to  consider  a  proposition  by  Eng- 
land and  France  for  a  joint  agreement  with  Spain  as  to  the  dis- 

'  From  The  Independent,  December  i8,  igi3.  Copyright,  1913,  by  The  Inde- 
pendent.    Reprinted  by  permission. 


THE  MONROE  DOCTRINE  309 

position  of  Cuba,  stating  that  while  the  United  States  did  not 
intend  to  interfere  with  the  control  of  Cuba  by  Spain,  it  could 
not  consent  to  the  ownership  of  the  island  by  any  other  power. 
Again,  when  Yucatan  had  been  temporarily  separated  from 
Mexico  by  insurrection,  and  the  insurrecto  leaders  sought  to 
dispose  of  the  country  to  the  United  States,  or  to  England,  or  to 
Spain,  President  Polk,  in  declining  their  offer  to  the  United 
States,  advised  them  that  we  could  not  consent  to  a  transfer  of 
dominion  and  sovereignty  either  to  Spain,  Great  Britain,  or  any 
other  power,  because  "dangerous  to  our  peace  and  safety." 

Without  directly  citing  the  Monroe  Doctrine  by  name,  Mr. 
Seward  protested  against  the  occupation  of  Mexico  by  France 
during  the  Civil  War,  with  the  purpose  of  colonizing  or  setting 
up  a  new  government  on  the  ruins  of  the  Mexican  Government. 
France  denied  having  any  other  purpose  than  to  collect  its  debts 
and  redress  its  wrongs.  Afterward  the  Mexican  Government 
was  overthrown  and  an  empire  established,  with  an  Austrian 
Archduke  at  its  head.  The  American  Civil  War  closed,  the 
American  troops  were  massed  on  the  Mexican  border  under 
Sheridan,  and  France  was  requested  to  withdraw  her  troops. 
She  did  so,  and  the  collapse  of  the  Maximilian  Government 
followed. 

President  Grant,  in  sending  the  San  Domingo  treaty  to  the 
Senate,  announced  that  thereafter  no  territory  on  the  continent 
should  be  regarded  as  subject  to  transfer  to  an  European  power, 
and  that  tliis  was  an  adherence  to  the  Monroe  Doctrine  as  a 
measure  of  national  protection. 

Again,  the  policy  was  insisted  upon  and  maintained  by  Mr. 
Olney  and  Mr.  Cleveland  in  reference  to  England's  declination 
to  arbitrate  the  boundary  issue  between  Venezuela  and  British 
Guiana,  in  which  Mr.  Cleveland  and  Mr.  Olney  believed  that 
they  saw  a  desire  on  the  part  of  Great  Britain,  through  a  boun- 
dary dispute,  to  sequester  a  considerable  part  of  Venezuela,  val- 
uable because  of  the  discovery  of  gold  mines  in  it.  Mr.  Cleve- 
land's position  in  the  matter  was  sustained  by  a  resolution  which 
was  passed  by  both  Houses.  In  this  instance  Mr.  Olney  used 
the  expression :  — 


jio  ELEMENTS  IX  COM  HI  NATION 

To-day  tho  Tnitcd  States  is  practically  sovereign  on  this  continent, 
a;ul  its  li.il  is  law  upon  the  subjects  to  which  it  confuus  its  interposi- 
tion. 


The  original  declaration  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  was  prompted 
by  England's  wish,  when  Canning  was  Foreign  Minister,  that 
England  and  the  United  States  should  make  a  joint  declaration 
of  such  a  policy.  Since  its  announcement  by  President  Monroe, 
there  have  been  frequent  intimations  by  English  statesmen 
while  in  office  that  they  do  not  object  to  its  maintenance. 
Whether  the  other  governments  of  Europe  have  acquiesced  in 
it  or  not,  it  is  certain  that  none  of  them  have  insisted  upon  \'io- 
lating  it  when  the  matter  was  called  to  their  attention  by  the 
United  States.  Every  one  admits  that  its  maintenance  until 
recently  has  made  for  the  peace  of  the  world,  has  kept  European 
governments  from  intermeddling  in  the  politics  of  this  hemi- 
sphere, and  has  enabled  all  the  various  Latin- American  republics 
that  were  offshoots  from  Spain  to  maintain  their  own  govern- 
ments and  their  independence.  While  it  may  be  truly  said  that 
it  has  not  made  for  peace  between  them,  still  that  was  not 
within  the  scojje  of  its  purpose.  It  has,  however,  restrained  the 
land  hunger  and  the  gro\\'ing  disposition  for  colonization  by  some 
European  go\-ernments,  which  otherwise  would  certainly  have 
carried  them  into  this  hemisphere.  The  very  revolutions  and 
instabilities  of  many  of  the  Latin-American  republics  would 
have  offered  frequent  excuse  and  oi)portunity  for  intervention 
by  European  governments,  which  they  would  ha\'e  promptly 
improved. 

But  now  we  are  told  that  under  changed  conditions  the  Mon- 
roe Doctrine  has  becoine  an  obsolete  shibboleth,  and  that  it  pro- 
motes friction  with  our  Latin-American  neighbors,  and  that  it  is 
time  for  us  to  abandon  it.  It  is  said  that  it  is  an  assertion  of  a 
suzerainty  by  the  United  States  over  both  continents,  that  it 
seeks  to  keep  under  the  tutelage  of  the  United  States  great  and 
powerful  nations  like  the  Argentine  Republic,  Brazil,  and  Chile, 
that  its  continuance  as  a  declared  policy  of  this  Government 
alienates  these  and  other  republics  of  South  America,  injures 


THE  MONROE  DOCTRINE  311 

their  proper  national  pride,  creates  a  resentment  against  us, 
which  interferes  with  our  trade  relations,  and  does  not  promote 
the  friendly  feeling  that  strengthens  the  cause  of  peace. 

Before  we  proceed  to  consider  this  proposition,  we  ought  to 
make  clear  certain  deiinite  limitations  of  the  Monroe  policy  that 
are  not  always  given  weight  by  those  who  condemn  it.  In  the 
first  place,  the  Monroe  Doctrine  is  a  policy  of  the  United  States, 
and  is  not  an  obligation  of  international  law  binding  upon  any 
of  the  countries  affected,  either  the  European  countries  whose 
action  it  seeks  to  limit,  or  the  countries  whose  government  and 
territory  it  seeks  to  protect.  Nor  indeed  does  it  create  an  abso- 
lute obligation  on  the  part  of  the  United  States  to  enforce  it. 
It  rests  primarily  upon  the  danger  to  the  interest  and  safety  of 
the  United  States,  and,  therefore,  the  nearer  to  her  boundaries 
the  attempted  violation  of  the  Doctrine,  the  more  directly  her 
safety  is  affected  and  the  more  acute  her  interest ;  and,  naturally, 
therefore,  the  more  extreme  will  be  the  measures  to  which  she 
would  resort  to  enforce  it.  While  the  assertion  of  the  Doctrine 
covers  both  continents,  the  measures  of  the  United  States  in  ob- 
jecting to  an  invasion  of  the  policy  might  be  much  less  emphatic 
in  the  case  where  it  was  attempted  in  countries  as  remote  as 
Argentina,  Brazil,  and  Chile  than  in  the  countries  surrounding 
the  Caribbean  Sea,  or  that  will  be  brought  close  to  the  United 
States  by  the  opening  of  the  Panama  Canal.  It  is  well  that  the 
declared  policy  has  in  the  past  covered  both  continents,  because 
this  certainly  contributed  to  the  causes  which  made  Argentina, 
Brazil,  and  Chile  the  powerful  countries  they  have  become. 
But  as  Daniel  Webster  said  in  Congress,  in  1826,  speaking  of  the 
plans  of  the  Holy  Alliance :  — 

"If  an  armament  had  been  furnished  by  the  allies  to  act  against 
provinces  the  most  remote  from  us,  as  Chile  or  Buenos  Ayres,  the 
distance  of  the  scene  of  action  diminishing  our  apprehension  of  dan- 
ger, and  diminishing,  also,  our  means  of  effectual  interposition,  might 
still  have  left  us  to  content  ourselves  with  remonstrance.  But  a 
very  different  case  would  have  arisen  if  an  army  equipped  and  main- 
tained by  these  powers  had  been  landed  on  the  shores  of  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico  and  commenced  the  war  in  our  own  immediate  neighborhood. 


312 


ELEMENTS  IX  COMBINATION 


Such  an  event  might  justly  be  regarded  as  dangerous  lo  ourselves, 
and  on  that  ground  call  for  decided  and  immediate  interference  by  us." 

In  other  words,  the  extent  of  our  interxeution  to  enforce  the 
policy  is  a  matter  of  our  own  judgment,  with  a  notice  that  it 
covers  all  Arnerica.  It  therefore  follows  that  the  Monroe  Doc- 
trine, so  far  as  it  applies  to  Argentina,  Brazil,  and  Chile,  the  so- 
called  A.  B.  C.  governments  of  South  America,  is  now  never 
likely  to  be  pressed,  first  because  they  have  reached  such  a  point 
that  they  are  able  to  protect  themselves  against  any  European 
interference,"  and,  second,  because  they  are  so  remote  from  us 
that  a  \iolation  of  the  Doctrine  with  respect  to  them  would  be 
little  harmful  to  our  interests  and  safety. 

The  second  great  limitation  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  is  that  it 
does  not  contemplate  any  interference  on  our  part  with  the  right 
of  an  European  government  to  declare  and  make  war  upon  any 
American  go\-ernment,  or  to  pursue  such  course  in  the  vindica- 
tion of  its  national  rights  as  would  be  a  proper  method  under 
the  rules  of  international  law.  This  was  expressly  declared 
to  be  a  proper  term  in  the  statement  of  the  Doctrine  by  Mr. 
Seward  during  our  Civil  War,  when  Spain  made  war  against 
Chile.  He  announced  our  intention  to  observe  neutrality  be- 
tween the  two  nations,  and  he  laid  down  the  proposition  that 
the  Doctrine  did  not  require  the  United  States,  in  a  consistent 
pursuit  of  it,  to  protect  any  government  in  this  hemisphere, 
either  by  a  defensive  alliance  against  the  attacking  European 
power  or  by  interfering  to  prevent  such  punishment  as  it  might 
inflict,  pro\dded  only  that  in  the  end  the  conquering  power  did 
not  force  its  own  go\'ernment  upon  the  conquered  people,  or 
compel  a  permanent  transfer  to  it  of  their  territory^  or  resort  to 
any  other  unjustly  oppressive  measures  against  them.  And 
Mr.  Roosevelt,  in  his  communications  to  Congress,  has  again 
and  again  asserted  that  maintenance  of  the  Doctrine  does  not 
require  our  Government  to  object  to  armed  measures  on  the 
part  of  European  governments  to  collect  their  debts  and  the 
debts  of  their  nationals  against  governments  in  this  continent 
that  are  in  default  of  their  just  obUgations,  provided  only  that 


THE  MONROE  DOCTRINE 


ZT-Z 


they  do  not  attempt  to  satisfy  those  obHgations  by  taking  over 
to  themselves  ownership  and  possession  of  the  territory  of  the 
debtor  governments,  or  by  other  oppressive  measures.  It  may 
be  conceded  that  Mr.  Olney  used  language  that  was  unfortunate 
in  describing  the  effect  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  upon  the  position 
of  the  United  States  in  this  hemisphere.  It  is  not  remarkable 
that  it  has  been  construed  to  be  the  claim  of  suzerainty  over  the 
territory  of  the  two  American  continents.  Our  fiat  is  not  law 
to  control  the  domestic  concerns,  or  indeed  the  internal  policies, 
or  the  foreign  policies  of  the  Latin-American  republics,  or  of 
other  American  governments,  nor  do  we  exercise  substantial 
sovereignty  over  them.  We  are  concerned  that  their  govern- 
ments shall  not  be  interfered  with  by  European  governments ; 
we  are  concerned  that  tliis  hemisphere  shall  not  be  a  field  for  land 
aggrandizement  and  the  chase  for  increased  political  power  by 
European  governments,  such  as  we  have  witnessed  in  Africa 
and  in  China  and  Manchuria,  and  we  believe  that  such  a  condi- 
tion would  be  inimical  to  our  safety  and  interests.  More  than 
this,  where  a  controversy  between  an  European  government  and 
a  Latin-American  republic  is  of  such  a  character  that  it  is  likely 
to  lead  to  war,  we  feel  that  our  earnest  desire  to  escape  the  pos- 
sible result  against  which  the  Monroe  Doctrine  is  aimed,  is 
sufficient  to  justify  our  mediating  between  the  European  power 
and  the  Latin-American  republic,  and  bringing  about  by  negotia- 
tion, if  possible,  a  peaceable  settlement  of  the  difference.  This 
is  what  Mr.  Roosevelt  did  in  Venezuela  and  in  Santo  Domingo. 
It  was  not  that  the  use  of  force  or  threatened  force  to  collect  their 
debts  by  the  European  powers  constituted  a  violation  of  the 
Monroe  Doctrine  that  induced  Mr.  Roosevelt  to  act,  but  only  a 
general  desire  to  promote  peace  and  also  a  wish  to  avoid  circum- 
stances in  which  an  invasion  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  might 
easily  follow. 

It  is  said  —  and  this  is  what  frightened  peace  advocates  from 
the  Monroe  Doctrine  —  that  it  rests  on  force,  and  ultimately 
on  the  strength  of  our  army  and  our  navy.  That  is  true,  if  its 
enforcement  is  resisted.  Its  ultimate  sanction  and  vindication 
are  in  our  ability  to  maintain  it ;  but  our  constant  upholding  and 


314 


ELEMEXTS  IX  COMBIXATIUIS 


assertion  of  the  Doctrine  have  enabled  us,  with  the  conflicting 
interests  of  European  powers  and  the  support  of  some  and  the 
acquiescence  of  others,  to  give  etlfect  to  that  Doctrine  for  now 
nearly  a  century,  and  that  without  the  firing  of  a  single  shot. 
This  has  given  the  Doctrine  a  traditional  weight  that  assertion 
of  a  new  policy  by  the  United  States  never  could  have.  It  is 
a  national  asset,  and,  indeed,  an  asset  of  the  highest  value  for 
those  who  would  promote  the  peace  of  the  world.  The  mere 
fact  that  the  further  successful  maintenance  of  the  Monroe  Doc- 
trine, in  the  improbable  event  that  any  European  power  shall 
deliberately  violate  it,  will  require  the  exercise  of  force  upon  our 
part,  is  certainly  not  a  reason  for  the  most  sincere  advocate  of 
peace  to  insist  upon  sacrificing  its  beneficent  influence  and  pres- 
tige as  an  instrument  of  peace  to  pre\ent  European  intermed- 
dling in  this  hemisphere,  which  a  century  of  successful  insistence 
without  actual  use  of  force  has  given  it. 

Much  as  the  Doctrine  may  be  criticised  by  the  Continental 
press  of  Europe,  it  is  an  institution  of  one  hundred  years'  stand- 
ing, it  is  something  that  its  age  is  bound  to  make  Europe  respect. 
It  was  advanced  at  a  time  when  we  were  but  a  small  nation  with 
little  power,  and  it  has  acquired  additional  force  and  prestige 
as  our  nation  has  grown  to  the  size  and  strength  and  interna- 
tional influence  that  it  now  has. 

Were  we  to  abandon  the  Doctrine  and  thus  in  effect  notify 
the  European  governments  that,  so  far  as  our  remonstrance  or 
interposition  was  concerned,  they  might  take  possession  of 
Santo  Domingo,  of  Haiti,  or  of  any  of  the  Central  American 
republics,  or  of  any  South  American  republics  that  might  be 
disturbed  by  revolution,  and  that  might  give  them  some  inter- 
national excuse  for  intervention,  it  would  be  a  very  short  time 
before  we  would  be  forced  into  controversies  that  would  be  much 
more  dangerous  to  the  peace  of  this  hemisphere  than  our  con- 
tinued assertion  of  the  Doctrine  properly  understood  and  Hmited. 

I  fully  sympathize  with  the  desire  to  make  such  countries  as 
the  Argentine  Republic,  Brazil,  Chile,  and  other  powers  in 
South  America  that  are  acquiring  stability  and  maintaining  law 
and  order  within  their  boundaries,  understand  that  we  do  not 


THE  MONROE  DOCTRINE  31 5 

claim  to  exercise  over  them  any  suzerainty  at  all,  and  that  we 
are  not  tendering  our  guardianship  as  if  they  were  children  or 
as  if  they  needed  it.  We  reserve  to  ourselves  the  right,  should 
oppression  or  injustice  be  manifested  in  a  warlike  way  by  any  of 
the  European  countries  against  them,  and  should  they  be  un- 
fortunate enough  not  to  be  able  to  give  effective  resistance;  to 
determine  whether  it  is  not  in  our  own  interest  to  intervene  and 
prevent  an  overturning  of  their  government  or  an  appropriation 
of  their  territory.  But  we  recognize  that  this  possibility  is  so 
remote  that  it  practically  removes  them  from  the  operation  of 
the  Monroe  Doctrine.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  Mr.  Roosevelt,  in 
his  visit  to  those  countries,  has  sought  to  impress  them  with  the 
same  view  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  that  I  have  thus  expressed. 
Indeed,  he  would  have  helped  them,  and  us,  too,  far  more,  if  he 
had  confined  his  teachings  and  lectures  to  explanations  and 
limitations  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  and  had  not  sought  to 
destroy  the  independence  of  the  judiciary  and  demoralize  the 
administration  of  justice  —  in  two  continents. 

But  it  is  said  that  we  ought  to  invite  in  these  so-called  A.  B.  C. 
powers  of  South  America  to  assist  us  in  upholding  the  Doctrine 
and  also  in  doing  what  the  Doctrine,  as  well  as  neighborhood 
interests,  may  lead  us  to  do  with  near-by  countries  around  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico  and  the  Caribbean  Sea,  and  that  we  ought  to 
establish  some  sort  of  relationship  with  these  great  powers  as 
members  of  a  kind  of  hegemony  to  decide  upon  Latin-American 
questions  and  participate  in  intervention  to  help  along  the 
smaller  countries,  and  thus  put  such  powers  on  an  equality  with 
us  in  our  American  policy  and  give  assurance  of  our  disinterested- 
ness. If  we  could  do  this,  I  would  be  glad  to  have  it  done,  be- 
cause it  would  relieve  us  of  part  of  a  burden  and  would  give 
greater  weight  to  the  declaration  of  the  policy.  I  would  be  glad 
to  have  an  effort  tactfully  made  to  this  end,  and  I  don't  want  to 
discourage  it ;  but  I  fear  we  should  find  that  these  powers  would 
be  loath  to  assume  responsibility  or  burden  in  the  matter  of  the 
welfare  of  a  government  like  one  of  the  Central  American  re- 
publics, or  Haiti,  or  Santo  Domingo,  so  remote  from  them  and 
so  near  to  us.     We  attempted  in  case  of    disturbance  in  the 


3i6  ELEMESTS  7.V  COMBISATION 

Central  American  governments  once  or  twice  to  interest  Mexico, 
when  Mexico  had  a  responsible  government  and  was  very  near 
at  hand,  but  President  Diaz  was  loath  to  take  any  part  with  the 
United  States  in  such  an  arran^^emcnt,  and  we  found  that  what- 
ever had  to  be  done  had  to  be  done  larf^ely  on  the  responsibility 
of  the  United  States. 

If  action  in  respect  of  any  republic  of  South  America  were 
necessary  under  the  Monroe  Doctrine,  the  joining  of  the  A.  B.  C. 
powers  with  the  United  States  might  involve  suspicion  and 
jealousy  on  the  part  of  other  South  American  republics  not  quite 
so  prosperous  or  so  stable  as  the  A.  B.  C.  powers.  Thus,  instead 
of  helping  the  situation,  the  participation  of  part  of  the  South 
American  go\ernments  might  only  complicate  it.  I  know 
something  about  the  character  of  those  coiintries  myself,  not 
from  personal  observation,  but  from  a  study  of  the  character 
of  Spanish  descended  civilizations  and  societies,  and  I  \'enture 
to  say  that  sensitive  as  they  all  may  be  in  respect  to  suspected 
encroachments  of  the  United  States,  they  are  even  more  sensi- 
tive as  between  themselves  and  their  respective  ambitions. 
During  my  administration,  Mr.  Knox,  the  Secretajy  of  State, 
tendered  the  good  offices  of  the  United  States  as  between  South 
American  go\ernments  who  were  bitter  against  each  other  over 
boundaries  and  other  disputes,  and  successfully  brought  them  to 
a  peaceful  solution,  but  in  those  controversies  it  was  quite  ap- 
parent that  whatever  then  might  be  general  feeling  against  the 
United  States,  their  suspicions  of  each  other,  when  their  interests 
were  at  variance,  were  quite  as  intense.  Indeed  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  the  fear  in  the  hearts  of  the  less  powerful  peoples 
of  South  America,  of  a  South  American  hegemony,  is  more  real 
than  any  genuine  fear  they  may  have  of  the  actual  suzerainty 
of  our  Government.  My  belief,  therefore,  is  that  unless  we 
could  organize  a  union  of  all  the  countries  of  two  continents, 
which  would  be  so  clumsy  as  to  be  entirely  impracticable,  the 
influence  of  the  United  States  can  probably  be  exerted  in  sup- 
port of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  more  effectively  and  much  less 
invidiously  alone,  than  by  an  attempt  to  unite  certain  of  the 
South  American  powers  in  an  effort  to  preserve  its  successful 


THE  MONROE  DOCTRINE  31 7 

maintenance.    I  hope  that  my  fear  in  this  respect  will  prove  to 
be  unfounded,  and  that  the  plan  suggested  may  be  successful. 

I  have  read  with  a  great  deal  of  interest  the  account  given  by 
Professor  Bingham  of  South  American  public  opinion  toward 
the  United  States  in  his  most  interesting  book,  which  he  calls 
The  Monroe  Doctrine  an  Obsolete  Shibboleth.  His  views  were 
based  on  an  extended  and  very  valuable  opportunity  for  obser- 
vation in  nearly  all  the  South  American  countries.  He  pictures 
with  great  force  the  feeling  that  is  cultivated  by  the  press  of  those 
countries  against  the  United  States,  the  deep  suspicion  that  the 
people  of  South  America  have  toward  her  professions  of  disin- 
terestedness in  South  American  and  Central  American  politics, 
and  their  resentment  at  what  they  regard  as  an  assumption  of 
guardianship  and  of  suzerainty  over  them,  and  a  patronizing 
attitude  which  they  believe  to  be  involved  in  the  maintenance  of 
the  Monroe  Doctrine.  He  sets  out  the  construction  put  by  them 
on  the  various  acts  of  the  United  States,  and  the  mean  and  selfish 
and  greedy  motives  they  attribute  to  her,  judging  by  speeches 
by  their  statesmen  and  politicians,  and  by  editorials  of  their 
newspapers.  I  know  something  of  the  opportunity  the  Spanish 
language  affords  to  convey,  with  the  most  studied  and  graceful 
periods  and  with  an  assumption  of  courteous  and  impartial 
treatment,  insinuations  and  suspicions  of  the  sincerity  of  a  person 
or  a  government  against  whom  the  writer  desires  to  awaken  the 
hostility  of  his  readers.  Professor  Bingham,  without  discussing 
the  merits  of  the  acts  of  authorities  of  the  United  States,  to  which 
he  invites  attention,  merely  gives  the  view  that  the  South  Ameri- 
can press  of  different  countries  took  of  those  acts.  No  one  can 
read  the  book  but  see  how  utterly  unjust  is  much  of  the  criticism 
of  the  United  States.  Nevertheless,  I  quite  agree  that  it  is  the 
bounden  duty  of  this  Government  and  her  people  to  avoid  as 
much  as  possible  those  acts  which  can  give  rise  to  a  miscon- 
struction of  her  motives,  and  to  take  a  course  which  shall  deprive 
them  of  any  appearance  of  a  desire  to  use  her  power  in  this  hemi- 
sphere or  to  enforce  and  extend  the  Monroe  Doctrine  with  a  view 
to  her  selfish  aggrandizement.  I  know  the  attractiveness  of  the 
Spanish-American  ;  I  know  his  high-born  courtesy,  I  know  his 


3l8  ELEMENTS  IN   COM I'.I NATION 

love  of  art,  his  poet  nature,  his  response  to  generous  treatment 
and  I  ivnow  how  easily  he  misunderstands  the  thoughtless 
blunt ness  of  an  Anglo-Saxon  dij)lomacy,  and  the  too  frecjuent 
lack  (tf  rcganl  for  the  feelings  of  others  that  we  have  inherited. 
I  sympathize  ileeply  with  every  effort  to  remove  every  obstacle 
to  good  feeling  between  us  and  a  great  and  growing  people,  if 
only  we  are  not  called  upon  in  doing  so  to  gi\'c  u])  something 
valuable  to  us  and  to  the  world. 

The  injustice  of  the  attitude  which  Professor  Bingham  and 
others  who  take  his  views  describe  as  that  of  the  South  American 
j^ress,  may  be  seen  by  one  or  two  references.  Our  Cuban  war 
was  begun  with  the  most  unselfish  moti\-es  on  our  part  and  with 
a  self-denying  declaration,  but  it  has  been  flaunted  in  South 
America  as  a  war  of  aggression  for  aggrandizement  and  the 
ex))loitation  of  new  territory,  because  the  people  of  Porto  Rico 
desired  to  come  under  our  go\'ernment  and  we  accepted  them, 
and  because  we  found  the  Philippines  in  such  a  condition  of  an- 
archy that  we  had  to  take  them  over.  We  have  not  exploited 
either  Porto  Rico  or  the  Philippines.  We  have  only  given  them 
a  better  government  and  more  prosperity  and  individual  liberty 
than  they  ever  had.  We  have  promised  the  Filipinos  that  when 
their  people  acquire  sufficient  education  and  knowledge  to  make 
their  government  stable,  we  will  turn  over  the  government  to 
them.  Twice  Cuba  has  been  under  our  control,  and  twice  we 
have  turned  the  island  back  to  the  people  to  whom  we  promised 
to  do  so  when  we  entered  upon  the  war.  It  has  cost  us  hundreds 
of  millions  of  money  and  many  valuable  lives  to  give  her  her 
independence.  Nevertheless,  our  conduct,  as  unselfish  and  self- 
sacrificing  as  history  shows,  is  treated  among  the  South  American 
people  as  an  indication  of  our  desire  to  enlarge  our  territorial 
control.  Had  we  desired  to  extend  our  territory,  how  easily  we 
could  have  done  it  1  How  many  opportunities  have  been  pre- 
sented to  us  that  we  have  rejected  !  Now  is  it  a  reason  for  us  to 
give  up  a  doctrine  that  has  for  near  a  century  helped  along  the 
cause  of  peace,  that  our  motives  in  maintaining  it  have  been 
misconstrued  by  the  persons  who  have  so  much  profited  by  our 
enforcing  it  ?    If  we  had  entered  upon  the  policy  merely  because 


THE  MONROE  DOCTRINE  319 

those  people  asked  us  to  assert  it,  and  for  no  other  reason,  then 
their  wish  to  end  it  might  properly  be  given  great  weight,  but  the 
Doctrine  was  originally  declared  to  be  one  in  our  own  interest 
and  for  our  own  safety.  True,  it  has  greatly  strengthened  our 
insistence  upon  the  Doctrine  that  it  helped  these  people  to  main- 
tain their  governmental  integrity  and  independence.  Never- 
theless, the  question  whether  we  shall  continue  it  ought  not  to 
be  controlled  by  their  unjust  feeling  that  our  continued  main- 
tenance of  the  Doctrine,  with  its  proper  limitations,  in  our  own 
interest,  is  in  some  way  or  other  a  reflection  upon  their  national 
prestige  and  international  standing.  It  has  made  for  peace  in 
ninety  years.  Why  will  it  not  make  for  peace  in  the  next  one 
hundred  years  if  we  preserve  it  ? 

But  it  is  said  that  the  Doctrine  has  been  greatly  extended  and 
that  it  has  led  to  intermeddling  by  our  Government  in  the  politics 
of  the  smaller  countries,  like  Santo  Domingo  and  the  Central 
American  republics,  and  that  we  are  exercising  a  protectorate 
of  a  direct  character  over  some  of  them.  What  we  are  doing 
with  respect  to  them  is  in  the  interest  of  civilization,  and  we 
ought  to  do  it  to  aid  our  neighboring  governments,  whether  the 
Monroe  Doctrine  prevails  or  not.  My  hope,  as  an  earnest  ad- 
vocate of  world  peace,  is  that  ultimately  by  international  agree- 
ment we  shall  establish  a  court  like  that  of  The  Hague,  into 
which  any  government  aggrieved  by  any  other  government  may 
bring  the  offending  government  (before  an  impartial  tribunal) 
to  answer  for  its  fault  and  to  abide  the  judgment  of  the  court  as 
to  the  remedy  or  damages  that  shall  be  judged  against  it,  if  any. 
Now  it  is  utterly  impossible  that  the  peace  of  the  world  may  be 
brought  about  under  such  an  arrangement  as  long  as  there  are 
governments  that  cannot  maintain  peace  within  their  own  bor- 
ders, and  whose  instability  is  such  that  war  is  rather  the  normal 
than  the  exceptional  status  within  their  territory.  One  of  the 
"Tiost  crying  needs  in  the  cause  of  general  peace  is  the  promotion 
of  stability  in  government  in  badly  governed  territcjry.  This  has 
been  the  case  with  Santo  Domingo  and  Haiti.  It  has  been  true 
in  a  majority  of  the  republics  of  Central  America,  and  until 
recently  was  true  in  the  northern  part  of  South  America.     Revo- 


320  y././..i/A.\  /.s    /.\    iUMBIXATION 

lutit)ns  m  those  countries  lui\e  been  constant,  j)cace  has  been 
the  exception,  and  prosperity,  health,  haj)piness,  law,  and  order 
have  all  been  impossible  under  such  conditions  and  in  such 
governments.  The  nearer  they  are  to  our  borders,  the  more  of 
a  nuisance  they  have  become  to  us  and  the  more  injurious  they 
are  to  our  national  interests.  It  was  the  neij^hborhood  nuisance 
that  led  to  the  Cuban  war  and  justilied  it.  Now-  when  we  prop- 
erly may,  with  the  consent  of  those  in  authority  in  such  govern- 
ments, and  without  too  much  sacritice  on  our  part,  aid  those 
governments  in  bringing  about  stability  and  law  and  order, 
without  involving  ourseh'es  in  their  cix'il  wars,  it  is  proper  na- 
tional policy  for  us  to  do  so.  It  is  not  only  proper  national 
policy,  but  it  is  international  philanthropy.  We  owe  it  as  much 
as  the  fortunate  man  owes  aid  to  the  unfortunate  in  the  same 
neighborhood  and  in  the  same  community.  We  arc  interna- 
tional trustees  of  the  prosperity  we  have  and  the  power  we  en- 
joy, and  we  are  in  duty  bound  to  use  them  when  it  is  both  con- 
venient and  i)roper  to  help  our  neighbors.  When  this  help  pre- 
vents the  happening  of  events  that  may  prove  to  be  an  acute 
N'iolation  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  by  European  governments,  our 
duty  in  this  regard  is  only  increased  and  amplified.  Therefore 
it  was  that  Mr.  Roosevelt  mediated  between  Venezuela  and  the 
governments  of  England,  Germany,  and  Italy,  as  I  have  already 
explained.  So  it  was  in  the  case  of  Santo  Domingo,  w'here  a  simi- 
lar situation  was  foreshadowed,  and  in  wliich,  in  order  to  relieve 
that  situation,  we  assumed  the  burden  of  appointing  tax  collec- 
tors and  custom  house  officials  who  were  under  our  protection 
and  who  were  thereby  removed  from  revolutionary  attacks. 
We  thus  took  away  any  motive  for  re\'olution,  because  it  could 
not  be  successful  without  the  funds  w'liich  the  seizure  of  custom 
houses  and  the  instrumentalities  for  the  collection  of  taxes  would 
furnish.  This  arrangement  was  perfected  in  a  treaty,  and  it 
has  been  most  profitable  for  the  people  of  Santo  Domingo,  and 
has  relieved  them  from  a  succession  of  revolutions  that  had  been 
their  fate  before  it  was  adopted.  The  policy  does  not  involve 
and  ought  not  to  involve  a  protectorate  or  any  greater  interven- 
tion in  their  internal  affairs  or  a  control  of  them,  than  this  power 


THE  MONROE  DOCTRINE  32I 

to  protect  custom  houses  may  involve.  This  is  ample  to  secure 
pacification. 

We  cannot  be  too  careful  to  avoid  forcing  our  own  ideas  of 
government  on  peoples  who,  in  favoring  popular  government, 
have  such  different  ideas  as  to  what  constitutes  it,  and  whose 
needs  in  respect  to  the  forms  of  government  that  promote  pros- 
perity and  happiness  for  them  are  mdely  variant  from  our  own 
requirements. 

Arrangements  similar  to  that  made  with  Santo  Domingo  were 
sought  from  the  United  States  by  the  governments  of  Honduras 
and  Nicaragua,  and  treaties  were  made,  but  they  were  defeated 
by  the  Senate  of  the  United  States  without  good  ground,  as  it 
seems  to  me.  I  am  glad  to  note  that  the  present  Administration 
is  looking  with  more  favor  upon  treaties  of  this  kind  than  its 
present  supporters  in  the  Senate  were  willing  to  give  them  when 
they  were  tendered  to  them  for  ratification  by  a  Republican 
Administration. 

When  we  come  to  Mexico,  where  anarchy  seems  now  to  reign, 
the  question  is  a  most  delicate  one.  Intervention  by  force  means 
the  expenditure  of  enormous  treasure  on  our  part,  the  loss  of 
most  valuable  lives,  and  the  dragging  out  of  a  tedious  war  against 
guerillas  in  a  trackless  country,  which  will  arouse  no  high  pa- 
triotic spirit  and  which,  after  we  have  finished  it,  and  completed 
the  work  of  tranquillity,  will  leave  us  still  a  problem  full  of 
difficulty  and  danger.  All  that  those  of  us  who  are  not  in  the 
Government  can  do,  is  to  support  the  hands  of  the  President  and 
the  Secretary  of  State,  and  to  present  to  the  European  powers 
and  the  world  a  solid  front,  with  the  prayer  that  the  policy 
which  is  being  pursued,  whatever  it  may  be,  will  be  a  successful 
one,  and  relieve  us  from  the  awful  burden  of  such  a  war  as  that 
I  have  described.  In  spite  of  the  discouraging  conditions  in 
Mexico,  however,  the  present  situation  illustrates  the  beneficent 
influence  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  on  the  attitude  of  the  European 
powers,  which,  in  spite  of  injury  to  the  property  and  persons  of 
their  nationals,  look  to  the  United  States  as  the  guide  whom  they 
are  willing  to  follow  in  working  out  a  solution.  The  condition 
of  Mexico  is  bad  enough,  to  be  sure,  but  if  it  had  involved  us  in 

Y 


322  ELEMESTS  /.V   COM/UXATIOX 

European  complications,  such  as  would  have  been  likely  to  arise 
had  there  been  European  intervention,  its  consequences  mijj;ht 
have  been  a  great  deal  worse. 

Excejition  is  taken  to  the  resolution  which  the  Senate  ado])ted 
in  August,  IQI2,  in  which  it  was  declared:  — 

Thai  when  any  harbor  or  other  place  on  the  American  continent 
is  so  situated  that  the  occupation  thereof  for  naval  or  military  pur- 
poses might  threaten  the  communications  or  the  safety  of  the  United 
States,  the  Government  of  the  United  States  could  not  see  without 
grave  concern  the  possession  of  such  harbor  or  other  place  by  any  cor- 
poration or  association  which  has  such  a  relation  to  another  govern- 
ment, not  American,  as  to  give  that  government  practical  power  of 
control  for  national  purposes. 

It  suffices  to  say  that  this  is  not  an  enlargement  of  the  Monroe 
Doctrine.  It  only  calls  special  attention  to  a  way  of  indirection 
by  which  it  can  be  violated.  The  policy  of  making  such  an 
announcement  at  the  time  may  perhaps  be  questioned,  but  that 
such  an  indirect  method  of  securing  a  military  outpost  threaten- 
ing to  the  safety  of  the  United  States  would  be  injurious  to  her 
interests  does  not  admit  of  doubt. 

I  do  not  intend  here  to  go  into  the  question  of  the  merits  of 
the  controversy  over  the  justice  of  our  acc^uisition  of  the  Canal 
Zone,  enabling  us  to  construct  the  Panama  Canal.  It  w^ould 
involve  too  long  a  discussion  and  is  not  relevant  to  the  subject 
matter  of  this  address,  because  what  was  done  in  that  case  by 
our  Government  was  not  any  assertion  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine, 
was  not  justified  on  the  ground  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine,  and  our 
right  to  do  what  we  did  was  based  on  very  different  principles. 
Earnest  and  sincere  efforts  were  made  in  my  administration  to 
satisfy  the  United  States  of  Colombia.  A  treaty  was  made  with 
her  re[)resentative,  in  Mr.  Roosevelt's  administration,  w^hich 
seemed  fair,  but  it  was  immediately  rejected.  All  efforts  to 
secure  an  adjustment  of  her  grievances  have  failed,  and  recently 
negotiations  were  postponed  by  her,  with  the  belief  that  the  in- 
coming Administration,  of  different  political  complexion,  would 
be  more  willing  than  mine  to  do  what  she  regards  as  exact  justice 


THE  MONROE  DOCTRINE 


323 


to  her.  We  should,  therefore,  await  with  hope  that  the  present 
Administration  may  solve  what  for  us  was  an  insoluble  difficulty. 

Mr.  Root,  whose  great  constructive  labors  in  the  cause  of  world 
peace  have  just  received  most  just  recognition  in  the  Nobel 
Prize,  in  his  visit  to  South  America  attempted  to  convince  the 
people  of  those  republics  that  we  wish  no  more  territory,  and  that 
we  wish  only  the  prosperity  of  all  our  neighbors.  And  Mr.  Knox 
in  his  visit  to  Venezuela,  and  to  all  the  republics  of  the  West 
Indies  and  Central  America,  made  the  same  effort.  I  hope  that 
Mr.  Roosevelt  may  carry  the  same  message  to  South  America. 
Doubtless  he  is  doing  so. 

After  some  years,  I  hope  that  a  consistent  course  on  our  part 
may  effect  an  abatement  of  the  present  feeling  described  by 
Professor  Bingham  and  others.  But  however  that  may  be,  and 
whatever  injustice  the  South  American  peoples  may  do  us  in 
suspecting  us  of  selfish  plans  against  them  and  their  territory, 
we  ought  not  to  allow  the  present  expressed  hostility  to  the 
Monroe  Doctrine,  which  involves  no  assertion  of  suzerainty  or 
sovereignty  over  them,  to  change  our  course.  The  Doctrine  is 
based  on  a  wise  policy  in  our  own  interest  to  exclude  from  this 
hemisphere  the  selfish  political  interference  of  European  govern- 
ments, and  their  appropriation  of  territory,  not  for  the  purpose 
of  increasing  our  power  or  territory,  but  for  the  purpose  of  pro- 
moting the  prosperity,  independence,  and  happiness  of  the 
peoples  of  these  two  continents  and  so  of  insuring  our  own  peace 
and  safety. 


IT.    C.    INFORMAL    ARGUMENT 

IS  AGRICULTURE  DECLINING?' 

Kenyon  L.  Butterfield 

There  is  no  likelihood  that  the  number  of  rural  people  will 
cveT  be  less  than  now.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  relatively, 
agriculture  as  an  industry  and  the  number  of  persons  engaged 
in  rural  pursuits  are  declining.  This  fact  has  led  some  thinkers 
to  the  apparent  conclusion  that  because  urban  population  and 
industry  are  eventually  to  be  the  more  dominant  features  of 
our  civilization,  rural  industry  and  rural  population  must  be- 
come minor  factors  in  American  life.  Indeed  this  idea  leads 
some  to  suppose  that  the  temper  of  rural  life  is  to  be  one  of 
decadence.  Of  course  the  very  fact  that  agriculture  as  an  in- 
dustry has  not  advanced  so  rapidly  as  manufacturing,  is  a 
cause  for  some  concern;  although  the  business  of  agriculture 
as  a  whole  is  now  so  flourishing,  that  we  are  not  much  given 
to  worry  about  it.  What  causes  still  greater  concern  is  the 
small  return  that  comes  to  the  average  farmer  for  his  labor 
and  use  of  capital.  This  is  a  matter  of  first  importance  in  a 
business  so  large  as  that  of  agriculture.  We  cannot  afford  to 
have  on  our  land  a  class  of  workers  generally  underpaid.  But 
let  us  dwell  for  a  moment  upon  this  cj[uestion  of  the  numbers  of 
rural  residents.  Josiah  Strong  states  that  the  tendency  city- 
ward will  persist  because  fewer  men  than  formerly  are  needed 
on  our  farms  to  produce  the  food  required  by  the  city  dwellers. 
There  is  no  doubt  about  the  general  principle ;  but  there  are 
some  important  qualifications  to  it.  In  the  first  place,  the  very 
fact  of  city  growth  makes  constantly  new  demands  upon  agri- 

'  From  The  Country  Church  and  the  Rural  Problem.  University  of  Chicago  Press 
Reprinted  by  permission. 

324 


STATE  CONTROL  AND   THE  INDIVIDUAL  325 

culture.  The  more  people  who  must  buy  their  food,  the  greater 
the  supply  needed.  Higher  standards  of  living  also  require 
higher  grades  of  food  products.  True,  it  is  a  well-known  eco- 
nomic law  that  the  proportion  of  income  spent  for  food  de- 
creases as  the  income  increases.  But  the  total  amount  spent  for 
food  does  increase  with  general  growth  of  population ;  besides, 
the  increased  expenditures  for  other  things,  if  made  in  purchase 
of  the  results  of  productive  enterprise,  create  a  new  and  con- 
siderable, if  indirect,  demand  for  more  food,  on  the  part  of  the 
workers  thus  given  new  employment.  Another  qualification 
lies  in  the  fact  that  while  the  product  per  agricultural  worker 
has  steadily  increased,  a  great  part  of  our  enlarged  food  supply 
in  America  has  come  from  the  use  of  new  areas.  We  are  pass- 
ing rapidly  out  of  this  condition.  While  millions  of  acres  are 
yet  to  be  redeemed  by  irrigation,  and  other  millions  by  drain- 
age, the  era  of  great  farm  land  expansion  has  passed.  Of  the 
two  processes,  it  is  vastly  easier  as  a  practical  matter  to  in- 
crease production  by  the  use  of  new  land  than  by  better  use  of 
the  old.  We  have  then  a  rapidly  increasing  non-agricultural 
population,  coincident  with  a  check  in  the  supply  of  new  agri- 
cultural land.  More  scientific  farming  is  to  be  the  outcome. 
Each  farm  worker  will  produce  more  than  now ;  but  it  does  not 
necessarily  follow  that  less  than  the  present  number  of  workers 
will  be  needed  on  our  farms.  In  fact,  it  is  probable  that  the 
number  of  agricultural  workers,  and  consequently  of  the  rural 
population,  will  slowly  but  steadily  increase  for  an  indefinite 
period  of  time. 


STATE   CONTROL  AND  THE  INDIVIDUAL  ^ 

A.  D.  Lindsay 

"The  only  real  moral  worth  is  in  choice  and  spontaneity: 
government  action  destroys  choice  and  therefore  destroys  moral 
worth."     This   argument   depends   on   an   almost   wage   fund 

1  From  Introduction  to  the  Essays  of  John  Stuart  Mill. 


3J()  IXfOKMAJ.   AKGIWIKST 

llu'ory  of  choice.  It  supposes  that  if  the  state  docs  for  me  com- 
j^ulsorily  what  I  might  have  done  for  myself,  I  am  robbed  of 
an  opportunity  for  choice.  Actually,  if  the  state  action  is  at 
all  sensible,  my  opportunities  for  action,  and  therefore  for 
choice,  are  greatly  increased.  If  it  were  left  to  me  to  mend 
or  neglect  the  road  in  front  of  my  house,  I  might  go  through 
an  excellent  moral  discipline  in  making  up  my  mind  to  mend 
it,  however  much  the  state  of  the  road  where  my  neighbors  had 
not  responded  to  their  moral  opportunities  made  traffic  impos- 
sible. If  the  state  levies  a  compulsory  rate  on  all,  and  provides 
a  good  road,  though  that  particular  moral  discipline  may  be 
gone,  I  need  not  sit  and  mourn  that  I  might  have  been  mend- 
ing the  road  had  not  a  paternal  go\'ernment  robbed  me  of  my 
choice.  Easy  communication  made  possible  by  good  roads 
will  bring  the  opportunities  of  countless  social  duties  ne\'er 
thought  of  before.  The  notion  that  the  moral  struggle  in  itself 
is  the  only  thing  of  value,  implies  that  we  ought  never  to  form 
moral  habits,  since  in  so  doing  -we  shall  decrease  the  area  of 
moral  struggle.  Given  that  I  am  a  person  who  cannot  pass  a 
public  house  without  going  through  a  moral  struggle  against 
the  temptation  to  get  drunk  withm,  is  it  really  an  advantage 
that  I  should  pass  a  hundred  rather  than  one  ?  I  shall  have  a 
hundred  more  moral  struggles,  provided  I  do  not  succumb ; 
but  I  shall  be  incapable  of  thinking  of  anything  else.  If  I  never 
thought  of  it  at  all,  I  should  have  the  opportunity  of  proving 
myself  a  really  good  citizen  instead  of  struggling  not  to  be  a 
very  bad  one.  To  suggest  that  any  means  which  produce  this 
result  would  destroy  true  temperance  is  to  suggest  J:hat  getting 
drunk  or  not  getting  drunk  is  the  only  moral  alternative  which 
we  are  capable  of  considering.  The  theory  is  abstract.  It 
isolates,  not  only  the  individual,  but  the  action  of  the  indi\-idual, 
and  examines  the  effect  of  social  action  in  that.  No  account  of 
liberty  can  be  satisfactory  which  does  not  see  the  individual 
as  he  actually  exists,  a  member  of  society  in  relation  to  other 
members.  Society  may  not  give  him  full  liberty,  but  without 
society  he  can  have  none  at  all. 


ORGANIZATION  OF  FARMERS  327 

ORGANIZATION  OF  FARMERS  ' 

Kenyon  L.  Butterfield 

The  history  of  agricultural  organizations  in  America  is  a  very 
interesting  one,  beginning  with  the  development  of  the  agricul- 
tural fairs,  the  farmers'  clubs,  etc.,  and  including  the  greater 
farmers'  movement  of  the  last  third  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
which  arose  during  the  period  of  general  agricultural  discon- 
tent, and  which  attempted  to  combine  the  entire  farming  class 
into  one  compact  organization.  It  would  take  us  too  far  afield 
to  describe  even  briefly  these  various  efforts  to  secure  the 
group  strength  of  the  farmers.  It  is  important,  however,  not 
to  omit  from  a  discussion  of  the  rural  problem  the  place  which 
organization  fills  in  its  solution.  It  is  a  fundamental  necessity. 
It  may  sound  like  an  echo  of  the  doctrine  of  brute  strength  to 
assert  that  the  farming  class,  like  other  classes,  needs  to  assert 
itself  in  order  to  play  its  part  in  on-going  civilization.  I  would 
call  your  attention  to  a  remark  made  by  Professor  Charles  H. 
Cooley :  — 

The  self-assertion  of  the  wage-earning  class,  so  far  as  it  is  orderly 
and  pursuant  of  details  which  all  classes  share,  has  commanded  not 
only  the  respect  but  the  good  will  of  the  people  at  large.     Weakness 

—  intrinsic  weakness,  the  failure  of  the  member  to  assert  its  function 

—  is  instinctively  despised.  I  am  so  far  in  sympathy  with  the  strug- 
gle for  existence  as  to  think  that  passive  kindliness  alone,  apart  from 
self-assertion,  is  a  demoralizing  ideal,  or  would  be  if  it  were  likely  to 
become  ascendant.  But  the  self  which  is  asserted,  the  ideal  fought 
for,  must  be  a  generous  one  —  involving  perhaps  self-sacrifice  as  that 
is  ordinarily  understood  —  or  the  struggle  is  degrading. 

Organization,  then,  becomes  a  test  of  class  efhciency.  Has  a 
great  class  of  people  like  the  farmers  the  power  to  combine, 
the  intelligence  to  combine,  the  will  to  combine  ?  Organization, 
moreover,  and  by  the  same  token,  tends  to  conserve  class  effi- 
ciency.    Can  the  class  maintain  an  organization  that  enables 

'  From  The  Country  Church  and  the  Rural  Problem.  University  of  Chicago  Press. 
Reprinted  by  permission. 


328  INFOKilAL   ARGUMENT 

it  to  assert  itself,  to  make  itself  felt  for  its  own  interests  and 
for  the  interests  of  the  nation? 

Organization  is  also  a  powerful  educational  force.  When- 
ever a  class  of  people  organizes  for  a  gi\'en  purpose,  it  is  bound 
to  debate  the  most  fundamental  considerations  of  political  and 
industrial  life,  and  such  discussion  cannot  but  be  educative  in 
its  results.  The  process  is  far  more  educative  than  to  raise 
merely  academic  questions.  Moreover,  farmers,  because  of 
their  isolation  and  individualism,  particularly  need  the  force  of 
organization  to  bring  them  together,  to  get  them  to  see  their 
problems  in  a  large  way.  They  cannot  possibly  exert  their 
best  influence  on  national  life  unless  rural  public  opinion  can 
be  crystallized,  incarnated,  put  at  work.  Of  course  this  will 
be  done  to  some  extent  through  the  ballot  box,  but  it  is  common 
knowledge  that  the  ballot  box  does  not  give  full  expression  to 
the  social  activity  of  our  people. 

The  social  tendency  of  the  age  is  clearly  toward  social  self- 
direction.  We  set  up  goals  for  civilization,  and  we  endeavor 
to  organize  public  opinion  in  such  a  way  that  the  goals  may  be 
realized.  We  plan  for  the  direction  in  which  society  shall  go. 
This  process  is  just  as  important  for  the  farming  class  as  for 
any  other  class.  It  is  a  mark  of  progress  when  a  class  can 
organize  and  determine  its  course.  The  fact  that  other  classes 
are  organized  is  therefore  a  very  good  reason  why  the  farmers 
should  organize.  They  need  to  organize  for  self-protection. 
They  need  to  make  themselves  felt  on  behalf  of  their  ow^n  in- 
terests. There  must  necessarily  be  more  or  less  friction  between 
classes.  Even  a  large  class  of  people  like  the  farmers  will  often 
have  their  rights  invaded,  unless  they  are  in  a  position  to  pro- 
tect themselves.  Not  only  so,  but  no  class  of  people  can  in  an 
unorganized  form  assert  itself  as  a  part  of  the  national  life. 
In  some  way  there  must  be  a  chance  to  gather  up  the  group 
sentiment,  the  group  power,  the  group  opinion,  and  bring  them 
to  bear  on  the  great  issues  of  our  common  life. 

At  two  points  particularly  is  there  great  need  for  adequate 
organization  of  the  agricultural  classes.  The  present  unsatis- 
factory system  of  distribution  of  farm  products  can  never  be 


ORGANIZATION  OF  FARMERS 


329 


fully  remedied  until  farmers  combine  in  a  systematic  and  com- 
prehensive fashion  for  business  cooperation.  Buying  together, 
selling  together,  cooperative  activities  in  many  minor  neigh- 
borhood enterprises,  are  essential  to  permanent  industrial 
success  in  agriculture. 

It  is  also  vitally  necessary  that  farmers  shall  insist  upon 
legislation  favorable  to  their  own  interests.  I  do  not  mean 
class  legislation  in  an  individual  sense,  but  laws  that  give  sub- 
stantial justice  to  the  farmers  as  producers.  Individual  farmers 
become  more  and  more  helpless  against  the  aggressions  of 
capitalism.  In  the  recent  tariff  discussion  in  Congress,  for  in- 
stance, there  was  very  little  said  about  the  way  in  which  the 
schedules  would  affect  the  farmers.  The  alleged  attempt  to 
monopolize  the  water  power  of  the  nation  will  have,  if  successful, 
a  very  important  bearing  upon  agricultural  welfare. 

Of  course  there  are  possible  disadvantages  coming  from 
■farmers'  organizations.  They  may  emphasize  undesirable  class 
distinctions.  They  may  be  unwisely  led.  They  may  tend  to 
eliminate  the  individual.  These  are  small  things  about  which 
we  may  be  cautious.  Fundamentally,  organization  is  essential 
to  rural  progress  and  the  solution  of  the  rural  problem. 

Only  those  who  have  had  something  to  do  with  farmers 
through  a  period  of  years  can  appreciate  how  difficult  it  is, 
however,  to  develop  farmers'  organizations.  There  are  the  in- 
grained habits  of  individual  initiative ;  there  is  a  lack  of  leader- 
ship ;  there  is  the  fact  that  those  composing  the  rural  class  as 
a  whole  do  not  always  have  a  common  interest  with  respect  to 
social  ideals,  economic  needs,  or  political  creeds.  Sometimes 
financial  considerations  stand  in  the  way ;  sometimes  economic 
or  political  fallacies  kill  off  otherwise  good  organizations; 
sometimes  mere  suspicion  prevents  cooperation. 

Organizations  for  social  and  educational  ends  are  particularly 
needed,  and  have  been  supplied  perhaps  best  of  all  by  the 
Grange.  The  Grange  has  also  done  something  to  secure  busi- 
ness cooperation.  Probably  the  great  development  of  agri- 
cultural organization  in  the  future  lies  along  the  lines  of  busi- 
ness cooperation. 


330  L\FOK.\fAL   ARGUMENT 

THE  ORGANIZATION  OF  LABOR  ^ 

Herbert  Croly 

The  necessity  for  the  formation  of  some  constructive  policy 
in  respect  to  labor  is  as  patent  as  is  that  for  the  formulation  of  a 
similar  ]x-)licy  in  respect  to  corporate  wealth.  Any  progress  in 
the  solution  of  the  problem  of  the  better  distribution  of  wealth 
will,  of  course,  have  a  profound  indirect  elTect  on  the  ameliora- 
tion of  the  condition  of  labor ;  but  such  progress  will  be  at  best 
extremely  slow,  and  in  the  meantime  the  labor  problem  presses 
for  some  immediate  and  direct  action.  As  we  have  seen,  Ameri- 
can labor  has  not  been  content  with  the  traditional  politico- 
economic  optimism.  Like  all  aggressive  men  alive  to  their 
own  interest,  the  laborer  soon  decided  that  what  he  really 
needed  was  not  equal  rights,  but  special  opportunities.  He  also 
soon  learned  that  in  order  to  get  these  special  opportunities  he 
must  conquer  them  by  main  force  —  which  he  proceeded  to  do 
with,  on  the  whole,  about  as  much  respect  for  the  law  as  was 
exhibited  by  the  big  capitalists.  In  spite  of  many  setbacks, 
the  unionizing  of  industrial  labor  has  been  attended  with  almost 
as  much  success  as  the  consolidating  of  industrial  power  and 
wealth ;  and  now  that  the  labor  unions  have  earned  the  alle- 
giance of  their  members  by  certain  considerable  and  indis- 
pensable services,  they  find  themselves  placed,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  law,  in  precisely  the  same  situation  as  combinations  of  cor- 
porate wealth.  Both  of  these  attempts  at  industrial  organiza- 
tion are  condemned  by  the  Sherman  Anti-Trust  Law  and  by 
certain  similar  state  legislation  as  conspiracies  against  the  free- 
dom of  trade  and  industry. 

The  labor  unions,  consequently,  like  the  big  corporations, 
need  legal  recognition  ;  and  this  legal  recognition  means  in  their 
case,  also,  substantial  discrimination  by  the  state  in  their  favor. 
Of  course,  the  unionist  leaders  appeal  to  public  opinion  with 
the  usual  American  cant.     According  to  their  manifestoes  they 

■  From  The  Promise  of  American  Life.  The  Macmillan  Company,  1909.  Re- 
printed by  permission. 


THE  ORGANIZATION  OF  LABOR  331 

demand  nothing  but  "fair  play"  ;  but  the  demand  for  fair  play 
is  as  usual  merely  the  hypocritical  exterior  of  a  demand  for 
substantial  favoritism.  Just  as  there  can  be  no  effective  com- 
petition between  the  huge  corporation  controlling  machinery 
of  production  which  cannot  be  duplicated  and  the  small  manu- 
facturer in  the  same  line,  so  there  can  be  no  effective  com- 
petition between  the  individual  laborer  and  the  really  efficient 
labor  union.  To  recognize  the  labor  union,  and  to  incorporate 
it  into  the  American  legal  system,  is  equivalent  to  the  desertion 
by  the  state  of  the  non-union  laborer.  It  means  that  in  the 
American  political  and  economic  system  the  organization  of 
labor  into  unions  should  be  preferred  to  its  disorganized  separa- 
tion into  competing  individuals.  Complete  freedom  of  com- 
petition among  laborers,  which  is  often  supposed  to  be  for  the 
interest  of  the  individual  laborer,  can  only  be  preserved  as  an 
effective  public  poHcy  by  active  discrimination  against  the 
unions. 

An  admission  that  the  recognition  of  labor  unions  amounts  to 
a  substantial  discrimination  in  their  favor,  would  do  much  to 
clear  up  the  whole  labor  question.  So  far  as  we  declare  that 
the  labor  unions  ought  to  be  recognized,  we  declare  that  they 
ought  to  be  favored ;  and  so  far  as  we  declare  that  the  labor 
union  ought  to  be  favored,  we  have  made  a  great  advance  towards 
the  organization  of  labor  in  the  national  interest.  The  labor 
unions  deserve  to  be  favored,  because  they  are  the  most  effective 
machinery  which  has  as  yet  been  forged  for  the  economic  and 
social  amelioration  of  the  laboring  class.  They  have  helped 
to  raise  the  standard  of  living,  to  mitigate  the  rigors  of  com- 
petition among  individual  laborers,  and  in  this  way  to  secure 
for  labor  a  larger  share  of  the  total  industrial  product.  A  demo- 
cratic government  has  little  or  less  reason  to  interfere  on  behalf 
of  the  non-union  laborer  than  it  has  to  interfere  in  favor  of  the 
small  producer.  As  a  type  the  non-union  laborer  is  a  species 
of  industrial  derelict.  He  is  the  laborer  who  has  gone  astray 
and  who  either  from  apathy,  unintelligence,  incompetence,  or 
some  immediately  pressing  need  prefers  his  own  individual 
interest  to  the  joint  interests  of  himself  and  his  fellow-laborers. 


332 


IN  FORM  A  L  A  RGUMENT 


From  the  point  of  \ie\v  of  a  constructive  national  policy  he  does 
not  deserve  any  special  protection.  In  fact,  I  am  willinj];  to  ^o 
farther  and  assert  that  the  non-union  industrial  laborer  should, 
in  the  interest  of  a  genuinely  democratic  organization  of  labor, 
be  rejected ;  and  he  should  be  rejected  as  emphatically,  if  not 
as  ruthlessly,  as  the  gardener  rejects  the  weeds  in  his  garden 
for  the  benefit  of  fruit-  and  flower-bearing  plants. 

The  statement  just  made  unciuestionably  has  the  appearance 
of  proposing  a  harsh  and  unjust  policy  in  respect  to  non-union 
laborers ;  but  before  the  policy  is  stigmatized  as  really  harsh  or 
unjust  the  reader  should  wait  until  he  has  pursued  the  argu- 
ment to  its  end.  Our  attitude  towards  the  non-union  laborer 
must  be  determined  by  our  opinion  of  the  results  of  his  economic 
action.  In  the  majority  of  discussions  of  the  labor  question, 
the  non-union  laborer  is  figured  as  the  independent  working 
man  who  is  asserting  his  right  to  labor  when  and  how  he  prefers 
against  the  tyranny  of  the  labcr  union.  One  of  the  most  in- 
telligent political  and  social  thinkers  in  our  country  has  gone  so 
far  as  to  describe  them  as  industrial  heroes,  who  are  fighting 
the  battle  of  individual  independence  against  the  army  of  class 
oppression.  Neither  is  this  estimate  of  the  non-union  laborer 
wholly  without  foundation.  The  organization  and  policy  of  the 
contemporary  labor  union  being  what  they  are,  cases  will  occa- 
sionally and  even  frequently  occur  in  which  the  non-union 
laborer  will  represent  the  protest  of  an  individual  against  in- 
jurious restrictions  imposed  by  the  union  upon  his  opportunities 
and  his  work.  But  such  cases  are  rare  compared  to  the  much 
larger  number  of  instances  in  which  the  non-union  laborer  is  to 
be  considered  as  essentially  the  individual  industrial  derelict. 
In  the  competition  among  laboring  men  for  work  there  will 
always  be  a  certain  considerable  proportion  who,  in  order  to 
get  some  kind  of  work  for  a  while,  will  accept  almost  any  con- 
ditions of  labor  or  scale  of  reward  offered  to  them.  Men  of 
this  kind,  cither  because  of  irresponsibility,  unintelligence,  or  a 
total  lack  of  social  standards  and  training,  are  continually  con- 
verting the  competition  of  the  labor  market  into  a  force  which 
degrades  the  standard  of  living  and  prevents  masses  of  their 


THE  ORGANIZATION  OF  LABOR 


333 


fellow  workmen  from  obtaining  any  real  industrial  indepen- 
dence. They  it  is  who  bring  about  the  result  that  the  most  dis- 
agreeable and  dangerous  classes  of  labor  remain  the  poorest 
paid;  and  as  long  as  they  are  permitted  to  have  their  full 
effects  upon  the  labor  situation,  progress  to  a  higher  standard 
of  living  is  miserably  slow  and  always  suffers  a  severe  setback 
during  a  period  of  hard  times.  From  any  comprehensive  point 
of  view  union  and  not  non-miion  labor  represents  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  laborer,  because  under  existing  conditions  such 
independence  must  be  bought  by  association.  Worthy  indi- 
\dduals  will  sometimes  be  sacrificed  by  this  process  of  associa- 
tion ;  but  every  process  of  industrial  organization  or  change, 
even  one  in  a  constructive  direction,  necessarily  involves  in- 
dividual cases  of  injustice. 

Hence  it  is  that  the  policy  of  so-called  impartiality  is  both 
impracticable  and  inexpedient.  The  politician  who  solemnly 
declares  that  he  beheves  in  the  right  of  the  laboring  man  to 
organize,  and  that  labor  unions  are  deserving  of  approval,  but 
that  he  also  believes  in  the  right  of  the  individual  laborer  to 
eschew  unionism  whenever  it  suits  his  individual  purpose  or 
lack  of  purpose,  —  such  familiar  declarations  constitute  merely 
one  more  illustration  of  our  traditional  habit  of  ''having  it 
both  ways."  It  is  always  possible  to  have  it  both  ways,  in  case 
the  two  ways  do  not  come  into  conflict;  but  where  they  do 
conflict  in  fact  and  in  theory,  the  sensible  man  must  make  his 
choice.  The  labor  question  will  never  be  advanced  towards 
solution  by  proclaiming  it  to  be  a  matter  of  antagonistic  in- 
dividual rights.  It  involves  a  fundamental  public  interest  — 
the  interest  which  a  democracy  must  necessarily  take  in  the 
economic  welfare  of  its  own  citizens ;  and  this  interest  demands 
that  a  decisive  preference  be  shown  for  labor  organization. 
The  labor  unions  are  perfectly  right  in  believing  that  all  who 
are  not  for  them  are  against  them,  and  that  a  state  which  was 
really  "impartial"  would  be  adopting  a  hypocritical  method 
of  retarding  the  laborer  from  improving  his  condition.  The 
unions  deserve  frank  and  loyal  support ;  and  until  they  obtain 
it,  they  will  remain,  as  they  are  at  present,  merely  a  class  or- 


334  INFOK.\fAL   ARGUMENT 

ganization  for  the  jnirpose  of  extorting  from  the  political  and 
economic  authorities  the  maximum  of  their  special   interests. 

The  labor  unions  should  be  granted  their  justifiable  demand 
for  recognition,  partly  because  only  by  means  of  recognition 
can  an  etlective  fight  be  made  against  their  unjustifialjle  de- 
mands. The  large  American  employer  of  labor,  and  the  whole 
official  politico-economic  system,  is  placed  upon  the  defensive 
by  a  refusal  frankly  to  prefer  unionism.  Union  labor  is  allowed 
to  conquer  at  the  sword's  point  a  preferential  treatment  which 
should  never  have  been  refused ;  and  the  consequence  is  that 
its  victory,  so  far  as  it  is  victorious,  is  that  of  an  industrial 
faction.  The  large  employer  and  the  state  are  disqualified 
from  insisting  on  their  essential  and  justifiable  interests  in 
respect  to  the  organization  of  labor,  because  they  have  rejected 
a  demand  essential  to  the  interest  of  the  laborer.  They  have 
remained  consistently  on  the  defensive ;  and  a  merely  defen- 
sive policy  in  warfare  is  a  losing  policy.  Every  battle  the 
unions  win  is  a  clear  gain.  Every  fight  which  they  lose  means 
merely  a  temporary  suspension  of  their  aggressive  tactics. 
They  lose  nothing  by  it  but  a  part  of  their  equipment  and 
prestige,  which  can  be  restored  by  a  short  period  of  inaction 
and  accumulation.  A  few  generations  more  of  this  sort  of  war- 
fare will  leave  the  unions  in  substantial  possession  of  the  whole 
area  of  conflict ;  and  their  victory  may  well  turn  their  heads  so 
completely  that  its  effects  will  be  intolerable  and  disastrous. 

The  alternative  policy  would  consist  in  a  combination  of  con- 
ciliation and  aggressive  w'arfare.  The  spokesman  of  a  con- 
structive national  policy  in  respect  to  the  organization  of  labor 
would  address  the  unions  in  some  such  words  as  these:  "Yes  ! 
You  are  perfectly  right  in  demanding  recognition,  and  in  de- 
manding that  none  but  union  labor  be  employed  in  industrial 
work.  That  demand  will  be  granted,  but  only  on  definite  terms. 
You  should  not  expect  an  employer  to  recognize  a  union  which 
establishes  conditions  and  rules  of  labor  inimical  to  a  desirable 
measure  of  individual  economic  distinction  and  independence. 
Your  recognition,  that  is,  must  depend  upon  conformity  to  an- 
other set  of  conditions,  imposed  in  the  interest  of  efficiency  and 


THE  ORGANIZATION  OF  LABOR  335 

individual  economic  independence.  In  this  respect  you  will  be 
treated  precisely  as  large  corporations  are  treated.  The  state 
will  recognize  the  kind  of  union  which  in  contributing  to  the 
interest  of  its  members  contributes  also  to  the  general  economic 
interest.  On  the  other  hand,  it  will  not  only  refuse  to  recognize 
a  union  whose  rules  and  methods  are  inimical  to  the  public 
economic  interest,  but  it  will  aggressively  and  relentlessly  fight 
such  unions.  Employment  will  be  denied  to  laborers  who 
belong  to  unions  of  that  character.  In  trades  where  such  unions 
are  dominant,  counter-unions  will  be  organized,  and  the  mem- 
bers of  these  counter-unions  alone  will  have  any  chance  of 
obtaining  work.  In  this  way  the  organization  of  labor,  like 
the  organization  of  capital,  may  gradually  be  fitted  into  a 
nationalized  economic  system." 

The  conditions  to  which  a  "good"  labor  union  ought  to  con- 
form are  more  easily  definable  than  the  conditions  to  which  a 
"good"  trust  ought  to  conform.  In  the  first  place  the  union 
should  have  the  right  to  demand  a  minimum  wage  and  a  mini- 
mum working  day.  This  minimum  would  vary,  of  course,  in 
different  trades,  in  different  branches  of  the  same  trade,  and  in 
different  parts  of  the  country ;  and  it  might  vary,  also,  at 
different  industrial  seasons.  It  would  be  reached  by  collective 
bargaining  between  the  organizations  of  the  employer  and  those 
of  the  employee.  The  unions  would  be  expected  to  make  the 
best  terms  that  they  could ;  and  under  the  circumstances  they 
ought  to  be  able  to  make  terms  as  good  as  trade  conditions  would 
allow.  These  agreements  would  be  absolute  within  the  limits 
contained  in  the  bond.  The  employer  should  not  have  to  keep 
on  his  pay-roll  any  man  who  in  his  opinion  was  not  worth  the 
money ;  but  if  any  man  was  employed,  he  could  not  be  obliged 
to  work  for  less  than  for  a  certain  sum.  On  the  other  hand, 
in  return  for  such  a  privileged  position,  the  unions  would  have 
to  abandon  a  number  of  rules  upon  which  they  now  insist. 
Collective  bargaining  should  establish  the  minimum  amount  of 
work  and  pay;  but  the  maximum  of  work  and  pay  should  be 
left  to  individual  arrangement.  An  employer  should  be  able  to 
give  a  peculiarly  able  or  energetic  laborer  as  much  more  than 


336  INFOR}fAL  ARGUMENT 

tlu'  minimum  \va.c;c  as  in  his  opinion  the  man  was  worth;  and 
mon  might  bo  iH'rmittccl  to  work  over  time,  provided  they  were 
paid  for  the  over  time  one  and  one-half  or  two  times  as  much 
as  they  were  paid  for  an  ordinary  working  hour.  The  agree- 
ment between  the  employers  and  the  union  should  also  provide 
for  the  terms  upon  which  men  would  be  atlmitted  into  the 
union.  The  employer,  if  he  employed  only  union  men,  should 
have  a  right  to  demand  that  the  supply  of  labor  should  not  be 
artificially  restricted,  and  that  he  could  depend  upon  procuring 
as  much  labor  as  the  growth  of  his  business  might  require. 
Finally  in  all  skilled  trades  there  should  obviously  be  some  con- 
nection between  the  unions  and  the  trade  schools ;  and  it  might 
be  in  this  respect  that  the  union  would  enter  into  closest  rela- 
tions with  the  state.  The  state  would  have  a  manifest  interest 
in  making  the  instruction  in  these  schools  of  the  very  best,  and 
in  furnishing  it  free  to  as  many  apprentices  as  the  trade  agree- 
ment permitted. 


DIRECT  PRESIDENTIAL  NOMINATIONS  ^ 

After  the  tariff  —  the  currency,  after  the  currency  —  the 
trusts,  after  the  trusts  —  the  Presidential  primary.  In  his 
address  to  Congress  last  December  President  Wilson  urged 
"the  prompt  enactment  of  legislation  which  will  provide  for 
primary  elections  throughout  the  country  at  which  the  voters 
of  the  several  parties  may  choose  their  nominees  for  the  Presi- 
dency without  the  intervention  of  nominating  conventions." 
There  are  indications  that  Mr.  Wilson  expects  this  to  be  the 
next  big  task  which  he  will  urge  Congress  to  undertake. 

The  proposal  for  the  direct  nomination  of  candidates  for  the 
Presidency  is  based  upon  solid  grounds. 

It  is  a  logical  development.  The  direct  primary  has  for 
fifteen  years  been  making  steady  and  irresistible  progress  from 
state  to  state.  In  only  one  state  was  a  direct  primary  law  ever 
repealed,  and  there  it  was  promptly  reenacted.     Thirty-seven 

•  Independent,  February  23, 1914.    Reprinted  by  permission. 


DIRECT  PRESIDENTIAL  NOMINATIONS  337 

governors  are  to-day  nominated  at  the  direct  primary.  If  a 
governor,  why  not  a  president?  The  extension  of  the  direct 
primary  to  the  nation  is  irrefutably  logical. 

It  is  democracy.  It  is  trite  to  say  that  the  very  core  of  that 
great  entity,  the  American  republic,  is  the  free,  unhampered, 
absolute  rule  of  the  people  —  or  it  would  be  trite  if  it  were  not 
so  profoundly  true.  When  "we,  the  People  of  the  United 
States"  did  "ordain  and  establish"  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States,  the  matter  was  settled  once  for  all.  Whenever 
in  our  political  processes  we  allow  ourselves  to  be  led  away 
from  the  complete  and  untrammeled  rule  of  the  people,  we  are 
false  to  our  national  ideals.  The  direct  primary  is  a  means  for 
facilitating  popular  rule.  Where  it  has  been  used,  it  has  helped 
to  preserve  and  develop  popular  rule.     It  is  democracy. 

It  is  an  instrument  of  representative  government.  It  is  one 
of  the  favorite  grounds  of  criticism  of  the  direct  primary  that 
since  ours  is  a  representative  government  and  not  a  pure  democ- 
racy, we  must  apply  the  methods  of  representative  government 
to  the  selection  of  party  candidates  as  well  as  to  the  business  of 
government.  Since  we  do  not  legislate  by  town-meeting,  we 
ought  not  to  nominate  candidates  by  town-meeting.  This  argu- 
ment, frequently  advanced  and  hotly  defended,  is  the  result  of 
loose  thinking.  The  direct  primary  is  not  a  denial  of  represent- 
ative government,  it  is  the  best  way  to  attain  it. 

There  are  two  essential  elements  in  representative  government 
—  the  one  negative,  the  other  positive.  The  first  is  that  the 
people  do  not  govern  directly.  This  is  the  negative  essential, 
the  most  emphasized,  but  the  least  important.  The  other  essen- 
tial is  that  those  who  do  govern  represent  the  people.  They 
are  not  autocrats,  carrying  out  their  own  will ;  they  are  not 
despots,  however  benevolent,  imposing  upon  the  people,  how- 
ever graciously  and  altruistically,  what  they  decide  that  they 
should  have.  They  are  representatives.  Their  power  is  not 
their  own,  it  belongs  to  the  people.  The  will  they  wield  as  a 
sceptre  is  not  their  own,  it  is  the  will  of  the  people.  It  matters 
not  a  bit  how  much  the  people  may  have  divested  themselves 
of  the  duty  of  direct  government ;   if  those  who  govern  do  not 


338  rNroR}f.n.  argiwient 

truly  rcprt'sont  tlu-ni,  it  is  no  roi)rcsentative  governnicnl  that 
we  have  but  a  base  imitation  of  it. 

Now  the  best,  indeed  the  only  infallible,  way  discovered  by 
mankind  for  making  sure  that  representatives  actually  reprc' 
sent  is  to  have  them  directly  selected  by  those  they  are  to  rejire- 
sent.  Every  obstacle  placed  between  the  people  and  their 
choice  of  representatives  is  a  bar  to  representative  government. 

Public  officials  who  owe  their  selection  for  office  to  any  one 
except  the  people  themselves  will  naturally,  inevitably,  tend 
to  represent,  not  the  people,  who  did  not  select  them,  but  the 
boss,  or  the  special  interest,  or  the  political  machine,  or  what- 
ever it  was,  that  did.  The  direct  primary  brings  the  official 
close  to  the  people  from  the  very  beginning.  It  makes  difficult 
the  inter\-ention  of  the  boss.  It  puts  a  stumbling  block  in  the 
way  of  the  special  interest.  It  tends  strongly  to  make  party 
nominees  truly  representative  of  the  party  members. 

It  works  well.  For  fifteen  years  the  direct  primary  has  been 
found  to  be  a  workable,  effective,  and  useful  instrument  of 
democracy.  In  a  few  states  which  tried  the  experiment  of  the 
presidential  preference  primary  two  years  ago,  the  results  were 
far  more  satisfactory  than  under  the  old  convention  system. 
The  only  difficulties  in  those  states  arose  from  the  fact  that  a 
hybrid  system  was  being  used.  The  voters  were  trying  to  do 
two  things  at  once  —  express  their  preference  for  party  candi- 
date for  president  and  select  delegates  to  go  to  a  national  con- 
vention. The  two  things  were  incompatible.  One  of  them 
was  utterly  superfluous.  If  the  voters  in  those  states  had  been 
asked  only  to  cast  their  votes  for  their  choice  for  party  candi- 
date, the  result  in  every  one  of  them  would  have  been  perfectly 
satisfactory  and  harmonious.  If  every  state  had  had  a  presi- 
dential primary,  the  regrettable  spectacle  of  the  Chicago  con- 
vention would  have  been  an  impossibility.  The  direct  primary 
works ;  the  presidential  primary  will  work. 

Various  arguments  are  urged  against  the  presidential  pri- 
mary, besides  the  one  which  we  have  sought  to  dispose  of  — 
that  it  is  opposed  to  the  principle  of  representative  government. 

It  is  said  that  the  voters  will  not  come  to  the  polls.     It  is 


DIRECT  PRESIDENTIAL  NOMINATIONS 


339 


hard  enough  to  get  them  out  for  an  election ;  to  get  them  out 
twice  will  be  impossible.  The  answer  is  simple  and  based  on 
experience.  More  will  certainly  come  to  the  primary  than 
come  to  a  caucus  under  the  old  system  to  elect  delegates  to  a 
convention ;  and  every  additional  voter  who  can  be  brought  to 
take  part  in  the  making  of  nominations  is  a  clear  gain  for 
democracy. 

The  expense  of  a  primary  campaign  will  be  so  great,  it  is 
urged,  that  it  will  put  a  premium  on  wealth ;  only  a  rich  man 
will  be  able  to  run  for  a  nomination.  But  they  have  solved  that 
problem  in  Oregon  and  New  Jerse}^  by  strict  laws  limiting  the 
amounts  that  may  be  expended. 

It  is  contended  that  the  people  need  leadership  which  the 
direct  primary  system  does  not  encourage.  The  reverse  is  the 
fact.  The  direct  primary  produces  leadership ;  the  conven- 
tion system  produces  bosses. 

The  real  arguments  against  the  presidential  primary  come 
from  two  kinds  of  persons :  bosses  and  other  usurpers  of  political 
power  who  know  that  their  continued  prestige  and  profit  de- 
pends upon  the  success  with  which  they  interpose  machinery 
between  the  voter  and  the  ultimate  selection  of  public  officials ; 
and  conservative  and  cautious  citizens  who  do  not  quite  trust 
the  mass  of  the  voters  to  know  what  is  best  for  them  and  to  do 
it. 

Every  real  believer  in  democracy,  every  one  who  thinks  that 
the  people  on  the  whole  and  in  the  long  run  can  be  trusted  to 
be  right  more  often  than  they  are  wrong,  every  one  who  believes 
with  De  Tocqueville  that  the  remedy  for  the  evils  of  democracy 
is  more  democracy,  every  one  with  his  face  to  the  future  and  an 
abiding  faith  in  the  American  people  in  his  heart,  should  give 
kis  support  to  the  proposal  for  the  presidential  primary. 


III.     DESCRIPTION 

A.     SENSES 

SUNRISE  AT   PORT-OF-SPAIN  » 

Lafc.\dio  Hearn 

SuNTJiSE :  a  morning  of  supernal  beauty,  —  the  sky  of  a 
fairy  tale,  the  sea  of  a  love-poem. 

Under  a  heaven  of  exquisitely  tender  blue,  the  whole  smooth 
sea  has  a  perfect  luminous  dove  color,  the  horizon  being  filled 
to  a  great  height  with  greenish-golden  haze,  —  a  mist  of  un- 
speakably sweet  tint,  a  hue  that,  imitated  in  any  aquarelle, 
would  be  cried  out  against  as  an  impossibility.  As  yet  the  hills 
are  nearly  all  gray,  the  forests  also  inwrapping  them  are  gray 
and  ghostly,  for  the  sun  has  but  just  risen  above  them,  and 
vapors  hang  like  a  veil  between.  Then,  over  the  glassy  level 
of  the  flood,  bands  of  purple  and  violet  and  pale  blue  and 
fluid  gold  begin  to  shoot  and  quiver  and  broaden ;  these  are  the 
currents  of  the  morning,  catching  var\ang  color  with  the  deepen- 
ing of  the  day  and  the  lifting  of  the  tide. 

Then,  as  the  sun  rises  higher,  green  masses  begin  to  glimmer 
among  the  grays ;  the  outlines  of  the  forest  summits  commence 
to  define  themselves  through  the  vapory  light,  to  left  and  right 
of  the  great  glow.  Only  the  city  still  remains  invisible  ;  it  lies 
exactly  between  us  and  the  downpour  of  solar  splendor,  and  the 
mists  there  have  caught  such  radiance  that  the  place  seems 
hidden  by  a  fog  of  fire.  Gradually  the  gold-green  of  the  horizon 
changes  to  a  pure  yellow ;  the  hills  take  soft,  rich,  sensuous 
colors.     One  of  the  more  remote  has  turned  a  marvellous  tone, 

>  From  Two  Years  in  the  French  West  Indies.  Copyright,  1890,  by  Haiper  and 
Brothers.     Reprinted  by  permission. 

.S40 


A    TROPICAL  SUNSET  341 

a  seemingly  diaphanous  aureate  color,  the  very  ghost  of  gold. 
But  at  last  all  of  them  sharpen  bluely,  show  bright  folds  and 
ribbings  of  green  through  their  haze.  The  valleys  remain  awhile 
clouded,  as  if  filled  with  something  like  blue  smoke;  but  the 
projecting  masses  of  cliff  and  slope  swiftly  change  their  misty 
green  to  a  warmer  hue.  All  these  tints  and  colors  have  a  spec- 
tral charm,  a  preternatural  loveliness;  everything  seems  sub- 
dued, softened,  semi-vaporized,  the  only  very  sharply  defined 
silhouettes  being  those  of  the  little  becalmed  ships  sprinkling 
the  western  water,  all  spreading  colored  wings  to  catch  the 
morning  breeze. 

The  more  the  sun  ascends,  the  more  rapid  the  development 
of  the  landscape  out  of  vapory  blue ;  the  hills  all  become  green- 
faced,  reveal  the  details  of  frondage.  The  wind  fills  the  waiting 
sails  —  white,  red,  yellow,  —  ripples  the  water,  and  turns  it 
green.  Little  fish  begin  to  leap ;  they  spring  and  fall  in  glitter- 
ing showers  like  opalescent  blown  spray.  And  at  last,  through 
the  fading  vapor,  dew-glittering  red-tiled  roofs  reveal  them- 
selves :    the  city  is  unveiled. 


A  TROPICAL  SUNSET  1 

Lafcadio  Hearn 

Almost  to  the  zenith  the  sky  flames  up  from  the  sea,  one 
tremendous  orange  incandescence,  rapidly  deepening  to  ver- 
milion as  the  sun  dips.  The  indescribable  intensity  of  this 
mighty  burning  makes  one  totally  unprepared  for  the  spectacle 
of  its  sudden  passing :  a  seeming  drawing  down  behind  the  sea 
of  the  whole  vast  flare  of  light.  Instantly  the  world  becomes 
indigo.  The  air  grows  humid,  weighty  with  vapor ;  frogs  com- 
mence to  make  a  queer  bubbling  noise ;  and  some  unknown 
creature  begins  in  the  trees  a  singular  music,  not  trilling,  like 
the  note  of  our  cricket,  but  one  continuous  shrill  tone,  high, 

'  From  Two  Years  in  the  French  West  Indies.  Copyright,  1890,  by  Harper  and 
Brothers.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


342  SEXSES 

keen,  as  of  a  thin  jet  of  steam  leaking  through  a  valve.  Strong 
vegetal  scents,  aromatic  and  novel,  rise  up.  Under  the  trees 
-eJtroiir:-iial<?l  I  hear  a  continuous  dripping  sound  ;  the  drops  fall 
heavily,  like  bodies  of  clumsy  insects.  But  it  is  not  dew,  nor 
insects ;  it  is  a  thick,  transparent  jelly,  a  fleshy  liquor  that  falls 
in  immense  drops.  The  night  grows  chill  with  dews,  with  vege- 
table breath ;   and  we  sleep  with  windows  nearly  closed. 


CLOUD   EFFECTS  1 

John  Rlskin 

Stand  upon  the  peak  of  some  isolated  mountain  at  daybreak, 
when  the  night  mists  first  rise  from  off  the  plains,  and  watch 
their  white  and  lake-like  fields  as  they  float  in  le\'el  bays  and 
winding  gulfs  about  the  islanded  summits  of  the  lower  hills, 
untouched  yet  by  more  than  dawn,  colder  and  more  quiet  than 
a  windless  sea  under  the  moon  of  midnight ;  watch  when  the 
first  sunbeam  is  sent  upon  the  silver  channels,  how  the  foam  of 
their  undulating  surface  parts  and  passes  away ;  and  down 
under  their  depths,  the  glittering  city  and  green  pasture  lie 
like  Atlantis,  between  the  white  paths  of  winding  rivers ;  the 
flakes  of  light  falling  every  moment  faster  and  broader  among 
the  starry  spires,  as  the  wreathed  surges  bre^  and  vanish  above 
them,  and  the  confused  crests  and  ridges  of  the  dark  hills 
shorten  their  gray  shadows  upon  the  plain.  Wait  a  little  longer, 
and  you  shall  see  those  scattered  mists  rallying  in  the  ravines, 
and  floating  up  towards  you,  along  the  winding  valleys,  till  they 
couch  in  quiet  masses,  iridescent  wath  the  morning  light,  upon 
the  broad  breasts  of  the  higher  hills,  whose  leagues  of  massy 
undulation  will  melt  back  and  back  into  that  robe  of  material 
light,  until  they  fade  away,  lost  in  its  lustre,  to  appear  again 
above,  in  the  serene  heaven,  like  a  wild,  bright,  impossible  dream, 
foundationless  and  inaccessible,  their  very  bases  vanishing 
in  the  unsubstantial  and  mocking  blue  of  the  deep  lake  below. 

*  From  Modern  Painters. 


Jf 


CLOUD  EFFECTS  343 

Wait  yet  a  little  longer,  and  you  shall  see  those  mists  gather 
themselves  into  white  towers,  and  stand  like  fortresses  along 
the  promontories,  massy  and  motionless,  only  piled  with  every 
instant  higher  and  higher  into  the  sky,  and  casting  longer  shadows 
athwart  the  rocks ;  and  out  of  the  pale  blue  of  the  horizon  you 
will  see  forming  and  advancing  a  troop  of  narrow,  dark,  pointed 
vapors,  which  will  cover  the  sky,  inch  by  inch,  with  their  gray 
network,  and  take  the  light  off  the  landscape  with  an  eclipse 
which  will  stop  the  singing  of  the  birds  and  the  motion  of  the 
leaves  together ;  and  then  you  will  see  horizontal  bars  of  black 
shadow  forming  under  them,  and  lurid  wreaths  create  them- 
selves, you  know  not  how,  along  the  shoulders  of  the  hills ;  you 
never  see  them  form,  but  when  you  look  back  to  a  place  which 
was  clear  an  instant  ago,  there  is  a  cloud  on  it,  hanging  by  the 
precipices,  as  a  hawk  pauses  over  his  prey.  And  then  you  will 
see  the  sudden  rush  of  the  awakened  wind,  and  you  will  see 
those  watch-towers  of  vapor  swept  away  from  their  foundations, 
and  waNdng  curtains  of  opaque  rain  let  down  to  the  valleys, 
swinging  from  the  burdened  clouds  in  black,  bending  fringes, 
or  pacing  in  pale  columns  along  the  lake  level,  grazing  its  surface 
into  foam  as  they  go.  And  then,  as  the  sun  sinks,  you  shall 
see  the  storm  drift  for  an  instant  from  off  the  hills,  leaving  their 
broad  sides  smoking,  and  loaded  yet  with  snow-white,  torn, 
steam-like  rags  of  capricious  vapor,  now  gone,  now  gathered 
again ;  while  the  smouldering  sun,  seeming  not  far  away,  but 
burning  like  a  red-hot  ball  beside  you,  and  as  if  you  could  reach 
it,  plunges  through  the  rushing  wind  and  rolling  cloud  with 
headlong  fall,  as  if  it  meant  to  rise  no  more,  dyeing  all  the  air 
about  it  with  blood.  And  then  you  shall  hear  the  fainting 
tempest  die  in  the  hollow  of  the  night,  and  you  shall  see  a  green 
halo  kindling  on  the  summit  of  the  eastern  hills,  brighter  — 
brighter  yet,  till  the  large  white  circle  of  the  slow  moon  is  lifted 
up  among  the  barred  clouds,  step  by  step,  line  by  line ;  star  after 
star  she  quenches  Avith  her  kindling  light,  setting  in  their  stead 
an  army  of  pale,  penetrable,  fleecy  wreaths  in  the  heaven,  to 
give  light  upon  the  earth,  which  move  together,  hand  in  hand, 
company  by  company,  troop  by  troop,  so  measured  in  their 


344  SENSES 

unity  of  motion,  that  tlu'  wliolc  lu-uvcn  seems  to  roll  with  them, 
and  the  earth  to  reel  under  them.  And  then  wait  yet  for  one 
hour,  until  the  east  apain  becomes  purple,  and  the  heaving 
mountains,  rolling  against  it  in  darkness,  like  waves  of  a  wild 
sea,  are  drowned  one  Ijy  one  in  the  glory  of  its  burning ;  watch 
the  white  glaciers  blaze  in  their  winding  paths  a])out  the  moun- 
tains, like  mighty  serpents  with  scales  of  fire ;  watch  the  columnar 
peaks  of  solitar\'  snow,  kindling  downwards,  chasm  by  chasm, 
each  in  itself  a  new  morning ;  their  long  avalanches  cast  down 
in  keen  streams  brighter  than  the  lightning,  sending  each  his 
tribute  of  driven  snow,  like  altar  smoke,  up  to  heaven  ;  the  rose- 
light  of  their  silent  domes  flushing  that  heaven  about  them  and 
above  them,  piercing  with  purer  light  through  its  jjurple  lines 
of  lifted  cloud,  casting  a  new  glory  on  every  wreath  as  it  passes 
by,  until  the  whole  heaven  —  one  scarlet  canopy  —  is  inter- 
wov-en  with  a  roof  of  waving  flame,  and  tossing,  vault  bevond 
vault,  as  with  the  drifted  wings  of  many  companies  of  angels ; 
and  then,  when  you  can  look  no  more  for  gladness,  and  when 
you  are  bowed  down  -with  fear  and  love  for  the  Maker  and  Doer 
of  this,  tell  me  who  hast  best  deUvered  His  message  unto  men  ! 


THE   YELLOW-BREASTED   CHAT  ^ 

John  Burroughs 

I  SELDOM  go  the  Rock  Creek  route  without  being  amused  and 
sometimes  annoyed  by  the  yellow-breasted  chat.  This  bird 
has  something  of  the  manners  and  build  of  the  cat-bird,  yet  he 
is  truly  an  original.  The  cat-bird  is  mild  and  feminine  com- 
pared with  this  rollicking  polyglot.  His  \oice  is  very  loud  and 
strong  and  quite  uncanny.  No  sooner  have  you  penetrated  his 
retreat,  which  is  usually  a  thick  undergrowth  in  low^,  wet 
localities,  near  the  woods  or  in  the  old  fields,  than  he  begins  his 
serenade,  which  for  the  v-ariety,  grotesqueness,  and  uncouth- 
ness  of  the  notes,  is  not  unlike  a  country  skiynmerton.     If  one 

>  From  "  Spring  at  the  Capital "  in  Wake  Robin.   Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company. 


ODORS  OF   VEGETATION  345 

passes  directly  along,  the  bird  may  scarcely  break  the  silence. 
But  pause  a  while,  or  loiter  quietly  about,  and  your  presence 
stimulates  him  to  do  his  best.  He  peeps  quizzically  at  you  from 
beneath  the  branches,  and  gives  a  sharp  feline  mew.  In  a 
moment  more  he  says  very  distinctly,  who,  who.  Then  in  rapid 
succession  follow  notes  the  most  discordant  that  ever  broke 
the  sylvan  silence.  Now  he  barks  like  a  puppy,  then  quacks 
like  a  duck,  then  rattles  like  a  kingfisher,  then  squalls  like  a  fox, 
then  caws  like  a  crow,  then  mews  like  a  cat.  Now  he  calls  as 
if  to  be  heard  a  long  way  off,  then  changes  his  key,  as  if  address- 
ing his  spectator.  Though  very  shy,  and  carefully  keeping 
himself  screened  when  you  show  any  disposition  to  get  a  better 
view,  he  will  presently,  if  you  remain  quiet,  ascend  a  twig,  or 
hop  out  on  a  branch  in  plain  sight,  lop  his  tail,  droop  his  wings, 
cock  his  head,  and  become  very  melodramatic.  In  less  than  half 
a  minute,  he  darts  into  the  bushes  again,  and  again  tunes  up,  no 
Frenchman  rolhng  his  r's  so  fluently  :  C-r-r-r-r-r, — whrr,  — that's 
it,  —  chee,  —  quack,  cluck,  —  yit-yit-yit,  —  now  hit  it,  —  tr-r-r,  — 
when,  caw,  caw,  —  cut,  cut,  —  tea-boy,  —  who,  who,  —  mew,  mew, 
—  and  so  on  till  you  are  tired  of  Hstening.  Observing  one  very 
closely  one  day,  I  discovered  that  he  was  limited  to  six  notes 
or  changes,  which  he  went  through  in  regular  order,  scarcely 
varying  a  note  in  a  dozen  repetitions. 


ODORS   OF  VEGETATION  1 

Wilson  Flagg 

The  characteristic  odors  of  the  seasons  come  chiefly  from 
flowers  in  the  spring  and  early  summer,  from  herbs  and  foliage 
in  the  later  summer,  and  from  the  ripened  harvest  and  withered 
leaves  in  autumn.  Winter  is  without  odors,  except  those  of 
the  forest  and  seaside.  The  first  aroma  that  pervades  the  at- 
mosphere in  spring  is  that  of  willows  and  poplars,  which  are  very 
distinct;  the  former  resembling  that  of  lilacs,  the  latter  more 

'  From  Halcyon  Days.     Estes  and  Laurial. 


^46  SENSES 

Ivilsamic,  and  proceeding  no  less  from  the  glutinous  buds  than 
fr(Mii  the  flowers.  Nature  never  seems  so  capricious  as  when 
she  distributes  her  odors  among  the  dillerent  species  of  vege- 
tation. Why  should  the  flowers  of  the  elm  and  the  maple  be 
stcntle.ss.  dilTcring  in  this  respect  so  notably  from  other  sjiring 
flowers?  Fragrance  is  denied  them,  perhaps  as  a  superlluity, 
l)ecause  they  bloom  and  fade  before  the  insect  tribes  are  abroad. 

\Vc  are  all  familiar  with  the  scent  of  flowering  orchard  trees. 
It  is  the  incense  that  May  ditluses  over  the  landscape  just  before 
lier  departure.  The  ])lossom  of  linden  trees  succeeds,  and  brings 
along  with  it  a  universal  hum  of  insects,  that  seem  into.xicated 
with  its  sweets.  From  this  bloom  the  bee  gathers  the  choicest 
honey.  If  the  linden  tree  had  no  other  extraordinary  merit, 
I  should  preserve  it  for  its  unrix'alled  sweetness.  Its  fragrant 
emanations  are  scattered  abroad  so  widely  that  not  an  insect 
loses  a  message  from  its  proffered  feast  of  nectar ;  and  the  hum 
of  the  innumerable  hosts  of  different  species  attracts  our  atten- 
tion as  one  of  the  picturesque  phenomena  of  the  season. 

The  true  seasonal  fragrance  of  summer  is  that  of  new-mown 
hay,  for  the  air  is  filled  with  it  during  all  the  time  of  hay-making. 
This  is  indeed  the  "balm  of  a  thousand  flowers";  for  though 
a  greater  part  of  the  aroma  comes  from  the  leaves  of  clover  and 
different  kinds  of  grasses,  the  whole  is  the  grateful  result  of  many 
species  with  their  flowers,  when  cut  down  by  the  scythe.  Almost 
any  combination  of  healthful  herbs,  when  spread  out  to  the  sun 
and  \nnd,  after  being  mowed,  will  produce  an  aroma  like  that 
of  new-mown  hay.  If  you  mix  ^\^th  these  any  considerable 
quantity  of  those  noxious  or  innutritious  herbs  which  are  not 
acceptable  to  cattle,  there  comes  from  the  mixture  a  rank  her- 
baceous smell  that  indicates  their  presence.  Nature  is  always 
true  to  the  instincts  of  her  creatures,  and  sets  up  no  false  al- 
lurements to  tempt  them  to  that  which  is  unheal thful. 

To  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay  succeeds  that  of  the  grain 
harvest,  —  the  odor  of  ripened  vegetation.  We  now  mark  the 
difference  between  the  savor  of  herbs  when  they  are  cut  down 
in  blossom  and  after  they  have  ripened  their  seeds.  The  odors 
of  summer  are  more  spicy  or  aromatic,  and  have  more  of  an 


THE  SOUND  OF  SUMMER  347 

intoxicating  quality,  than  those  of  the  harvest.  Nature  has 
denied  fragrance  to  the  autumnal  flowers,  except  a  few  that 
resemble  the  flowers  of  spring;  such  is  the  graceful  neottia, 
breathing  the  odor  of  hyacinths,  which  is  so  obscure  that  it 
would  be  overlooked  by  the  insects,  if  they  were  not  guided  by 
its  perfume.  Autumn  indeed  seems  niggardly  of  her  gifts  to 
the  honey-sipping  insects,  for  the  flowers  of  this  season  are  as 
destitute  of  sweetness  as  of  fragrance.  The  charms  of  autumn 
are  chiefly  for  the  eye,  —  of  tinted  woods  and  gorgeous  flowers, 
that  attract  us  more  by  their  glowing  profusion  than  by  any 
particular  beauty  as  individual  objects. 


THE   SOUND   OF   SUMMERS 

Richard  Jefferies 

Besides  the  singing  and  calling,  there  is  a  peculiar  sound 
which  is  only  heard  in  summer.  Waiting  quietly  to  discover 
what  birds  are  about,  I  become  aware  of  a  sound  in  the  very 
air.  It  is  not  the  midsummer  hum  which  will  soon  be  heard  over 
the  heated  hay  in  the  valley  and  over  the  cooler  hills  alike. 
It  is  not  enough  to  be  called  a  hum,  and  does  but  just  tremble 
at  the  extreme  edge  of  hearing.  If  the  branches  wave  and  rustle, 
they  overbear  it ;  the  buzz  of  a  passing  bee  is  so  much  louder, 
it  overcomes  all  of  it  that  is  in  the  whole  field.  I  cannot  define 
it  except  by  calling  the  hours  of  winter  to  mind  — they  are  silent ; 
you  hear  a  branch  crack  or  creak  as  it  rubs  another  in  the  wood, 
you  hear  the  hoar  frost  crunch  on  the  grass  beneath  your  feet, 
but  the  air  is  without  sound  in  itself.  The  sound  of  summer 
is  everywhere — in  the  passing  breeze,  in  the  hedge,  in  the  broad- 
branching  trees,  in  the  grass  as  it  swings ;  all  the  myriad  particles 
that  together  make  the  summer  arc  in  motion.  The  sap  moves 
in  the  trees,  the  pollen  is  pushed  out  from  grass  and  flower, 
and  yet  again  these  acres  and  acres  of  leaves  and  square  miles 
of  grass  blades  r—  for  they  would  cover  acres  and  square  miles 

1  Froto  "The  Pageant  of  Summer  "  in  The  Life  0/  the  fields. 


^48  SENSES 

if  reckoned  edge  to  edge  —  are  drawing  their  strength  from  the 
atmosphere.  K\ccedinj:;ly  minute  as  these  vibrations  must 
be,  their  numbers  perhaps  give  them  a  volume  ahnost  reaching 
in  the  aggregate  to  the  power  of  the  ear.  Besides  the  quivering 
leaf,  the  s\\-inging  grass,  the  fluttering  bird's  wing,  and  the  thou- 
sand oval  membranes  which  innumerable  insects  whirl  about, 
a  faint  resonance  seems  to  come  from  the  very  earth  itself. 
The  fer\-or  of  the  sunbeams  descending  in  a  tidal  flood  rings  on 
the  strung  harp  of  the  earth.  It  is  this  exquisite  undertone, 
heard  and  yet  unheard,  which  brings  the  mind  into  sweet  ac- 
cordance with  the  wonderful  instrument  of  nature. 


THE  PLOUGHING  1 

Frank  Norris 

The  day  was  fine.  Since  the  first  rain  of  the  season,  there 
had  been  no  other.  Now  the  sky  was  without  a  cloud,  pale 
blue,  delicate,  luminous,  scintillating  with  morning.  The  great 
brown  earth  turned  a  huge  flank  to  it,  exhaling  the  moisture  of 
the  early  dew.  The  atmosphere,  washed  clean  of  dust  and  mist, 
was  translucent  as  crystal.  Far  off  to  the  east,  the  hills  on  the 
other  side  of  Broderson  Creek  stood  out  against  the  pallid  saffron 
of  the  horizon  as  flat  and  as  sharply  outlined  as  if  pasted  on  the 
sky.  The  campanile  of  the  ancient  Mission  of  San  Juan  seemed 
as  fine  as  frost  work.  All  about  between  the  horizons,  the  carpet 
of  the  land  unrolled  itself  to  infinity.  But  now  it  was  no  longer 
parched  with  heat,  cracked  and  warped  by  a  merciless  sun, 
powdered  \nth  dust.  The  rain  had  done  its  work ;  not  a  clod 
that  was  not  swollen  with  fertility,  not  a  fissure  that  did  not 
exhale  the  sense  of  fecundity. 

The  ploughs,  thirty-five  in  number,  each  drawn  by  its  team 
of  ten,  stretched  in  an  interminable  line,  nearly  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  in  length,  behind  and  ahead  of  Vanamee.  They  were 
arranged,  as  it  were,  en  echelon,  not  in  file  —  not  one  directly 

1  From  The  Octopus,  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company.    Reprinted  by  permission. 


THE  PLOUGHING  349 

behind  the  other,  but  each  succeeding  plough  its  own  width 
farther  in  the  field  than  the  one  in  front  of  it.  Each  of  these 
ploughs  held  five  shears,  so  that  when  the  entire  company  was 
in  motion,  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  furrows  were  made  at 
the  same  instant.  At  a  distance,  the  ploughs  resembled  a  great 
column  of  field  artillery.  Each  driver  was  in  his  place,  his 
glance  alternating  between  his  horses  and  the  foreman  nearest 
at  hand.  Other  foremen,  in  their  buggies  or  buckboards,  were 
at  intervals  along  the  line,  hke  battery  lieutenants.  Annixter 
himself,  on  horseback,  in  boots  and  campaign  hat,  a  cigar  in 
his  teeth,  overlooked  the  scene. 

The  division  superintendent,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  line, 
galloped  past  to  a  position  at  the  head.  For  a  long  moment 
there  was  a  silence.  A  sense  of  preparedness  ran  from  end  to 
end  of  the  column.  All  things  were  ready,  each  man  in  his 
place.     The  day's  work  was  about  to  begin. 

Suddenly,  from  a  distance  at  the  head  of  the  line  came  the 
shrill  trilling  of  a  whistle.  At  once  the  foreman  nearest  Vanamee 
repeated  it,  at  the  same  time  turning  down  the  line,  and  waving 
one  arm.  The  signal  was  repeated,  whistle  answering  whistle, 
till  the  sounds  lost  themselves  in  the  distance.  At  once  the  line 
of  ploughs  lost  its  immobility,  moving  forward,  getting  slowly 
under  way,  the  horses  straining  in  the  traces.  A  prolonged 
movement  rippled  from  team  to  team,  disengaging  in  its  passage 
a  multitude  of  sounds  —  the  click  of  buckles,  the  creak  of  strain- 
ing leather,  the  subdued  clash  of  machinery,  the  cracking  of 
whips,  the  deep  breathing  of  nearly  four  hundred  horses,  the 
abrupt  commands  and  cries  of  the  drivers,  and,  last  of  all,  the 
prolonged,  soothing  murmur  of  the  thick  brown  earth  turning 
steadily  from  the  multitude  of  advancing  shears. 

The  ploughing  thus  commenced,  continued.  The  sun  rose 
higher.  Steadily  the  hundred  iron  hands  kneaded  and  furrowed 
and  stroked  the  brown,  humid  earth,  the  hundred  iron  teeth 
bit  deep  into  the  Titan's  flesh.  Perched  on  his  scat,  the  moist 
living  reins  slipping  and  tugging  in  his  hands,  Vanamee,  in  the 
midst  of  this  steady  confusion  of  constantly  varying  sensations, 
sight  interrupted  by  sound,  sound  mingling  with  sight,  on  this 


^50  SENSES 

swaying,  vibrating  scat,  cjuivering  with  the  prolonged  thrill  of 
the  earth,  lapsed  into  a  sort  of  pleasing  numbness,  in  a  sense 
h\pnolized  by  the  weaving  maze  of  things  in  which  he  found 
himself  involved.  To  keep  his  team  at  an  even,  regular  gait, 
maintaining  the  precise  interval,  to  run  his  furrows  as  closely 
as  possible  to  those  already  made  by  the  plough  in  front  —  this 
for  the  moment  was  the  entire  sum  of  his  duties.  But  while 
one  part  of  his  brain,  alert  and  watchful,  took  cognizance  of 
these  matters,  all  the  greater  part  was  lulled  and  stupefied  with 
the  long  monotony  of  the  affair. 

The  ploughing,  now  in  full  swing,  enveloped  him  in  a  vague, 
slow-moving  whirl  of  things.  Underneath  him  was  the  jarring, 
jolting,  trembling  machine;  not  a  clod  was  turned,  not  an 
obstacle  encountered,  that  he  did  not  receive  the  swift  impres- 
sion of  it  through  all  his  body,  the  very  friction  of  the  damp  soil, 
sliding  incessantly  from  the  shiny  surface  of  the  shears,  seemed 
to  reproduce  itself  in  his  finger-tips  and  along  the  back  of  his 
head.  He  heard  the  horse  hoofs  by  the  myriads  crushing  down 
easily,  deeply,  into  the  loam,  the  prolonged  cUnking  of  trace- 
chains,  the  working  of  the  smooth  brown  flanks  in  the  harness, 
the  clatter  of  wooden  hames,  the  champing  of  bits,  the  click  of 
iron  shoes  against  pebbles,  the  brittle  stubble  of  the  surface 
ground  crackling  and  snapping  as  the  furrows  turned,  the 
sonorous,  steady  breaths  wrenched  from  the  deep,  laboring 
chests,  strap-bound,  shining  with  sweat,  and  all  along  the  line 
the  voices  of  the  men  talking  to  the  horses.  Everywhere  there 
were  visions  of  glossy  brown  backs,  straining,  heaving,  swollen 
with  muscle ;  harness  streaked  with  specks  of  froth,  broad,  cup- 
shaped  hoofs,  heavy  with  brown  loam  ;  men's  faces  red  with  tan, 
blue  overalls  spotted  with  axle-grease;  muscled  hands,  the 
knuckles  whitened  in  their  grip  on  the  reins,  and  through  it  all 
the  ammoniacal  smell  of  the  horses,  the  bitter  reek  of  perspira- 
tion of  beasts  and  men,  the  aroma  of  warm  leather,  the  scent 
of  dead  stubble  — and  stronger  and  more  penetrating  than  every- 
thing else,  the  heavy,  enervating  odor  of  the  upturned,  living 
earth. 

At  intervals,  from  the  top  of  one  of  the  rare,  low  swells  of 


THE  PLOUGHING  351 

the  land,  Vanamee  overlooked  the  wider  horizon.  On  the  other 
divisions  of  the  Quien  Sabe  the  same  work  was  in  progress. 
Occasionally  he  could  see  another  column  of  ploughs  in  the 
adjoining  division  —  sometimes  so  close  at  hand  that  the  sub- 
dued murmur  of  its  movements  reached  his  ear ;  sometimes  so 
distant  that  it  resolved  itself  into  a  long,  brown  streak  upon  the 
gray  of  the  ground.  Farther  off  to  the  west  on  the  Osterman 
ranch  other  columns  came  and  went,  and,  once,  from  the  crest 
of  the  highest  swell  on  his  division,  Vanamee  caught  a  distant 
glimpse  of  the  Broderson  ranch.  There,  too,  moving  specks 
indicated  that  the  ploughing  was  under  way.  And  farther 
away  still,  far  off  there  beyond  the  fine  line  of  the  horizons, 
over  the  curve  of  the  globe,  the  shoulder  of  the  earth,  he  knew 
were  other  ranches,  and  beyond  these  others,  and  beyond  these 
still  others,  the  immensities  multiplying  to  infinity. 


III.    B.    LANDSCAPES 

CAPE   CODi 
Henry  David  Thoreau 

Cape  Cod  is  the  bared  and  bended  arm  of  Massachusetts: 
the  shoulder  is  at  Buzzard's  Bay;  the  elbow,  or  crazy-bone,  at 
Capfe  Mallebarre ;  the  wrist  at  Truro ;  and  the  sandy  fist  at 
Provincetown,  —  behind  which  the  State  stands  on  her  guard, 
with  her  back  to  the  Green  Mountains,  and  her  feet  planted 
on  the  floor  of  the  ocean,  Uke  an  athlete  protecting  her  Bay,  — 
boxing  with  northeast  storms,  and,  ever  and  anon,  heaving  up 
her  Atlantic  adversary  from  the  lap  of  earth,  —  ready  to  thrust 
forward  her  other  fist,  which  keeps  guard  the  while  upon  her 
breast  at  Cape  Ann.  .  .  . 

Cape  Cod  extends  from  Sandwich  eastward  thirty-five  miles, 
and  thence  north  and  northwest  thirty  more,  in  all  sixty-five, 
and  has  an  average  breadth  of  about  five  miles.  In  the  interior 
it  rises  to  the  height  of  two  hundred,  and  sometimes  perhaps 
three  hundred,  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea.  According  to 
Hitchcock,  the  geologist  of  the  State,  it  is  composed  almost 
entirely  of  sand,  even  to  the  depth  of  three  hundred  feet  m  some 
places,  though  there  is  probably  a  concealed  core  of  rock  a  little 
beneath  the  surface,  and  it  is  of  diluvian  origin,  excepting  a  small 
portion  at  the  extremity  and  elsewhere  along  the  shores,  which 
is  alluvial.  For  the  first  half  of  the  Cape  large  blocks  of  stone 
are  found,  here  and  there,  mixed  with  the  sand,  but  for  the  last 
thirty  miles  boulders,  or  even  gravel,  are  rarely  met  with. 
Hitchcock  conjectures  that  the  ocean  has,  in  the  course  of  time, 
eaten  out  Boston  Harbor  and  other  bays  in  the  mainland,  and 

»  From  Cape  Cod.     Houghton,  Mifilin  and  Company. 
35  2 


THE   UPPER  MISSISSIPPI  353 

that  the  minute  fragments  have  been  deposited  by  the  currents 
at  a  distance  from  the  shore,  and  formed  this  sandbank.  Above 
the  sand,  if  the  surface  is  subjected  to  agricultural  tests,  there 
is  found  to  be  a- thin  layer  of  soil  gradually  diminishing  from 
Barnstable  to  Truro,  where  it  ceases ;  but  there  are  many  holes 
and  rents  in  this  weatherbeaten  garment  not  likely  to  be  stitched 
in  time,  which  reveals  the  naked  flesh  of  the  Cape,  and  its 
extremity  is  completely  bare. 


THE   UPPER  MISSISSIPPI! 

Francis  Parkman 

If  Hennepin  had  had  an  eye  for  scenery,  he  would  have 
found  in  these  his  vagabond  rovings  wherewith  to  console  him- 
self in  some  measure  for  his  frequent  fasts.  The  young  Mis- 
sissippi, fresh  from  its  northern  springs,  unstained  as  yet  by 
unhallowed  union  with  the  riotous  Missouri,  flowed  calmly  on 
its  way  amid  strange  and  unique  beauties ;  a  wilderness,  clothed 
with  velvet  grass ;  forest-shadowed  valleys ;  lofty  heights, 
whose  smooth  slopes  seemed  levelled  with  the  scythe;  domes 
and  pinnacles,  ramparts  and  ruined  towers,  the  work  of  no 
human  hand.  The  canoe  of  the  voyagers,  borne  on  the  tranquil 
current,  glided  in  the  shade  of  gray  crags  festooned  with  honey- 
suckles ;  by  trees  mantled  with  wild  grapevines,  dells  bright  with 
flowers  of  the  wild  euphorbia,  the  blue  gentian,  and  the  purple 
balm;  and  matted  forests,  where  the  red  squirrels  leaped  and 
chattered.  They  passed  the  great  cliff  whence  the  Indian 
maiden  threw  herself  in  her  despair ;  and  Lake  Pepin  lay  before 
them,  slumbering  in  the  July  sun;  the  far-reaching  sheets  of 
sparkling  water,  the  woody  slopes,  the  tower-like  crags,  the  grassy 
heights  basking  in  sunlight  or  shadowed  by  the  passing  cloud; 
all  the  fair  outline  of  its  graceful  scenery,  the  finished  and 
polished  masterwork  of  Nature.  And  when  at  evening  they 
made  their  bivouac  fire,  and  drew  up  their  canoe,  while  dim, 

'  From  The  Discovery  of  the  Great  West. 


354 


LANDSCAPES 


sultry  clouds  veiled  the  west,  and  the  flashes  of  the  silent  heat- 
lit^htnin^  gleamed  on  the  leaden  water,  they  could  listen,  as 
they  smoked  their  pipes,  to  the  mournful  cry  of  the  whippoor- 
wills  and  the  quavering  scream  of  the  owls. 


IN  THE  SAHELi 
George  Edward  Woodberry 

Once  on  an  excursion  on  the  eastern  seacoast,  the  Tunisian 
Sahel,  I  left  Sousse  behind  in  the  noon  glare,  a  busy,  thriving, 
pleasant  place,  swarming  with  Arab  life  in  its  well-worn  ancestral 
ways  and  with  French  enterprise  in  its  pioneering  glow.  The 
old  Saracen  wall  lay  behind  me  towered  and  gated,  a  true 
mediaeval  girdle  of  defence,  and  I  gazed  back  on  the  white  city 
impearling  its  high  hillside  in  the  right  Moslem  way,  and  then 
settled  myself  to  the  long  ride  southward  as  I  passed  through 
cemeteries,  criss-crossed  mth  barbary  fig,  and  by  gardens 
adjoining  the  sea,  and  struck  out  into  the  plain,  spotted  with 
salty  tracks  and  little  cultivated.  It  is  thus  that  a  ride  on  this 
soil  is  apt  to  begin  —  with  a  cemetery ;  it  is  often  the  master- 
note  that  gives  the  mood  to  a  subsequent  landscape,  a  mood 
of  sadness  that  is  felt  to  be  sterile  also,  impregnated  with  fatalism. 
A  Moslem  bur^dng-ground  may  be,  at  rare  places,  a  garden  of 
repose ;  a  forsaken  garden  it  is  usually,  even  when  most  digni- 
fied and  beautiful  with  its  turbaned  pillars  in  the  thick  cypresses ; 
but  it  is  always  a  complete  expression  of  death.  The  cemetery 
lies  outside  at  the  most  used  entrance  of  a  town ;  and,  as  a  rule, 
in  the  country  it  is  of  a  melancholy  indescribable  —  it  lies  there 
in  so  naked  a  fashion,  a  hopeless  and  huddled  stretch  of  mthercd 
earth  in  swells  and  hummocks,  hardly  distinguishable  from 
common  dirt  and  debris  —  the  eternal  potter's  field.  It  is  a 
fixed  feature  in  the  Tunisian  landscape,  which  is  made  of  simple 
elements,  whose  continuous  repetition  gives  its  monotony  to 

'  From  North  Africa  and  the  Desert.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Reprinted  by 
permission. 


IN   THE  SAHEL  355 

the  land.     A  ride  only  rearranges  these  elements  under  new 
lights  and  in  new  horizons. 

Here  the  great  plain  was  the  common  background ;  my  course 
to  Sfax  lay  over  it,  broken  at  first  by  a  blossoming  of  gardens 
round  a  town  or  village,  and  twice  I  came  out  on  the  sea ;  but 
always  the  course  was  over  a  plain  with  elemental  mark  and 
quality  —  with  an  omnipresence  as  of  the  sea  on  a  voyage. 
The  line  between  man's  domain  and  nature  is  as  sharply  drawn 
on  this  plain  as  on  a  beach;  where  man  has  not  labored  the 
scene  stretches  out  with  nature  in  full  possession,  as  on  the 
ocean;  his  habitations  and  territory  are  islands.  Everything 
is  seen  relieved  on  great  spaces,  individualized,  isolated ;  fields 
of  grain,  green  and  moving  under  a  strong  land  wind ;  or  olive 
groves  —  silvery  gleams  —  on  the  hillsides,  clumps  of  trees,  or 
long  lines  of  them,  whole  hillsides,  it  may  be ;  or  there  are  gar- 
dens, closed,  secluded,  thickly  planted  with  pear  or  peach  or 
fig  or  other  fruit,  with  vegetables,  perhaps,  beneath  and  palms 
above.  The  figure  scenes,  too,  are  of  the  same  recurring  sim- 
plicity, —  a  man  leading  a  spirited  horse  in  the  street,  a  camel 
meagre  and  solemn  and  solitary  silhouetting  the  sky  anywhere 
within  a  range  of  miles,  boys  in  couples  herding  sheep  in  the 
middle  distances.  The  town  or  village  emerging  at  long  in- 
tervals is  a  monochord  —  a  point  of  dazzling  white  far  off, 
dissolving  on  approach  into  low  houses,  a  confused  mass  of 
uneven  roofs  skirting  the  ground  except  where  the  minaret  and 
the  palm  rise  and  unite  it  to  heaven  —  to  the  fire- veined  evening 
sky,  deep  and  tranquil,  or  the  intense  blue  noon,  or  the  pink 
morning  glory  of  the  spiritualized  scene  of  the  dawn.  The 
streets  are  silent ;  by  the  Moorish  cafe  lie  or  sit  or  crouch  motion- 
less figures,  sometimes  utterly  dull,  like  logs  on  the  earth,  or 
else  holding  pipes  or  gazing  at  checkers,  or  vacant  —  always 
somnolent,  statuesque,  sedentary.  There  are  no  windows,  no 
neighborhood  atmosphere  —  only  a  stagnant  exterior.  The 
feeling  of  a  retreat,  of  repose,  of  being  far  away  is  always  there. 
These  towns  have  a  curious  mixture  of  the  eternal  and  the 
ruined,  in  their  first  aspect ;  as  of  things  left  by  the  tide,  derelicts 
of  life,  all.     A  ride  in  the  Sahel  is  a  slow  kaleidoscopic  combina- 


356  LANDSCAPES 

tion  of  these  things,  a  reiteration  without  new  meaning,  —  the 
town,  the  cemetery,  the  grove,  the  garden,  the  plain,  the  fields, 
camel  and  sheep,  and  herdboys,  —  horizons,  somnolence,  tran- 
quillity. What  a  ride  !  and  then  to  come  out  on  the  sea  at 
Monastir  and  Mahdia,  —  such  a  boundless  sea  !  There  may 
be  boats  with  bending  sails,  the  fisher's  life,  suggesting  those 
strange  outljang  islands  they  touch  at,  exile-islands  from  long 
ago,  where  Marius  found  hiding,  and  where  the  Roman  women 
of  pleasure  of  the  grand  world  were  sent  to  live  and  die,  out  of 
the  world  —  still  the  home  of  a  race,  blending  every  strain  of 
ancient  blood.  Mahdia,  once  an  Arab  capital  and  long  a  seat  of 
power  in  different  ages,  is  a  famous  battle-name  in  Mahometan 
and  crusading  and  corsair  annals ;  it  stood  many  a  great  siege 
in  its  rocky  peninsula,  in  Norman  and  other  soldiering  hands, 
however  lifeless  it  may  seem  now ;  but  as  one  looks  on  its  di- 
minutive harbor,  a  basin  hewn  in  the  rock,  it  seems  now  to  speak 
rather  of  the  enmity  of  the  sea  and  the  terror  of  tempest  on  this 
dangerous  coast  —  shallow  waters  and  inhospitable  shores. 
History,  human  courage,  was  but  a  wave  that  broke  over  it, 
and  is  gone  like  the  others,  a  momentary  foam ;  but  the  sea  is 
always  the  sea.  Everywhere  one  must  grow  familiar  with  the 
neighboring  coastline  before  the  sea  will  lay  off  that  look  of 
enmity  it  wears  to  all  at  the  first  gaze ;  it  is  foreign  always  by 
nature.  To  descend  here  at  Mahdia,  and  to  walk  by  its  waves, 
to  hear  its  roll,  to  look  off  to  its  gulfs  and  hilltops  afar,  however 
brilliant  may  be  the  scene,  is  to  invite  the  deepest  melancholy 
that  the  waste  sea  holds  —  so  meaningless  that  worl(|^  lies  in  its 
monotony  all  about.  I  remember  the  Moorish  prince  who 
here,  after  his  long  victories,  stood  reflecting  on  the  men  who  were 
great  before  him,  and  how  their  glory  was  gone.  It  is  a  more 
desolate  port  now.  One  gladly  turns  to  the  land  —  and  there 
meets  the  plain,  equally  vaguely  hostile. 

So  I  rode  on  by  the  unceasing  stretch  of  the  way,  through  town 
and  by  garden  and  grove,  into  the  ever  enveloping  plain  that 
opened  before.  It  was  like  putting  to  sea  at  every  fresh  start ; 
and  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  the  last  far  crest  of  the  rolling  plain, 
I  saw  the  great  ruin,  El  Djem,  that  rose  with  immense  command- 


A   PINE  FOREST  357 

ing  power  and  seemed  to  dominate  a  world  of  its  own  sterile 
territory.  It  is  a  great  ruin,  —  a  colosseum :  arches  still  in 
heaven,  and  piled  and  fallen  rocks  of  the  old  colossal  cirque ; 
it  still  keeps  its  massive  and  uplifted  majesty,  its  Roman 
character  of  the  eternal  city  cast  down  in  the  waste,  its  monu- 
mental splendor,  —  a  hoar  and  solemn  token  of  the  time  when 
there  were  inhabitants  in  this  desolation  to  fill  the  vast  theatre 
on  days  of  festival,  and  the  line  of  its  subject  highway  stretched 
unbroken  to  Tunis  and  southward,  a  proud,  unending  urban 
way  of  villas,  a  road  of  gardens,  where  now  only  stagnates  the 
salty  plain,  sterile,  lifeless.  The  hamlet  beside  it  is  hardly 
perceptible,  like  a  molehill,  a  mere  trace  of  human  life.  I  sat 
out  the  sunset;  and  after,  under  a  cold  starry  sky,  Orion  re- 
splendent in  the  west  and  the  evening  star  a  glory,  I  set  off 
again  by  the  long  road  through  the  sparkling  April  darkness  and 
a  wind  that  grew  winter-cold  with  night,  southward  still  —  the 
vast  heavens  broken  forth  with  innumerable  starry  lights  — 
till  after  some  hours  of  speeding  on  a  route  that  was  without 
a  living  soul,  I  came  again  on  belated  groups  of  walking  Bedouins 
and  fragrant  miles  of  gardens  dark  by  the  roadway  and  many 
a  thick  olive  grove,  and  drew  up  at  Sfax. 


A  PINE   FOREST  1 

Stewart  Edward  White 

We  rode  through  the  pine  forests  growing  on  the  ridges  and 
hills  in  the  elevated  bowl-like  hollows.  These  were  not  the  so- 
called  ''big  trees," — with  those  we  had  to  do  later.  They 
were  merely  sugar  and  yellow  pines,  but  never  anywhere  have 
I  seen  finer  specimens.  They  were  planted  with  a  grand 
sumptuousness  of  space,  and  their  trunks  were  from  five  to 
twelve  feet  in  diameter  and  upwards  of  two  hundred  feet  high 
to  the  topmost  spear.    Underbrush,  ground  growth,  even  saplings 

1  From  The  Mountains.    Doubleday,  Page  and  Company.     Reprinted  by  per- 


358  LANDSCAPES 

of  the  same  species  were  lacking  entirely,  so  that  we  proceeded 
in  the  clear  open  aisles  of  a  tremendous  and  spacious  magnifi- 
cence. 

This  \  ery  lack  of  the  smaller  and  usual  growths,  the  generous 
plan  of  spacing,  and  the  size  of  the  trees  themselves  necessarily 
deprived  us  of  a  standard  of  comparison.  At  first  the  forest 
seemed  immense.  But  after  a  little  our  eyes  became  accustomed 
to  its  proportions.  We  referred  it  back  to  the  measures  of  long 
experience.  The  trees,  the  wood-aisles,  the  extent  of  vision 
shrank  to  the  normal  proportions  of  an  Eastern  pinery.  And 
then  we  would  lower  our  gaze.  The  pack-train  would  come  into 
\iew.  It  had  become  lilliputian,  the  horses  small  as  white  mice, 
the  men  like  tin  soldiers,  as  though  we  had  undergone  an  en- 
chantment. But  in  a  moment,  with  the  rush  of  a  mighty  trans- 
formation, the  great  trees  would  tower  huge  again. 


A  GROVE  OF  SEQUOIAS  1 
Stewart  Edward  White 

On  the  ridges  and  high  plateaus  north  of  the  Kaweah  River 
is  the  forest  I  describe;  and  of  that  forest  the  trees  grow  from 
fifteen  to  twenty-six  feet  in  diameter.  Do  you  know  what  that 
means  ?  Get  up  from  your  chair  and  pace  olT  the  room  you  are 
in.  If  it  is  a  very  big  room,  its  longest  dimension  would  just 
about  contain  one  of  the  bigger  trunks.  Try  to  imagine  a  tree 
like  that. 

It  must  be  a  columnar  tree  straight  and  true  as  the  supports 
of  a  Greek  fagade.  The  least  deviation  from  the  perpendicular 
of  such  a  mass  would  cause  it  to  fall.  The  limbs  are  sturdy  like 
the  arras  of  Hercules,  and  grow  out  from  the  main  trunk  direct 
instead  of  dividing  and  leading  that  main  trunk  to  themselves, 
as  is  the  case  with  other  trees.  The  column  rises  with  a  true 
taper  to  its  full  height;  then  is  finished  with  the  conical  effect 

>  From  The  Mountains.  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company.  Reprinted  by  per- 
mission. 


A   GROVE  OF  SEQUOIAS  359 

of  the  top  of  a  monument.  Strangely  enough  the  frond  is  ex- 
ceedingly line,  and  the  cones  small. 

When  first  you  catch  sight  of  a  sequoia,  it  does  not  impress 
you  particularly  except  as  a  very  fine  tree.  Its  proportions  are 
so  perfect  that  its  effect  is  rather  to  belittle  its  neighbors  than 
to  show  in  its  true  magnitude.  Then,  gradually,  as  your  ex- 
perience takes  cognizance  of  surroundings,  —  the  size  of  a  sugar- 
pine,  of  a  boulder,  of  a  stream  flowing  near,  —  the  giant  swells 
and  swells  before  your  very  vision  until  he  seems  at  the  last 
even  greater  than  the  mere  statistics  of  his  inches  had  led  you 
to  believe.  And  after  that  first  surprise  over  finding  the 
sequoia  something  not  monstrous  but  beautiful  in  proportion 
has  given  place  to  the  full  realization  of  what  you  are  beholding, 
you  will  always  wonder  why  no  one  who  has  seen  has  ever  given 
any  one  who  has  not  seen  an  adequate  idea  of  these  magnificent 
old  trees. 

Perhaps  the  most  insistent  note,  besides  that  of  mere  size 
and  dignity,  is  of  absolute  stillness.  These  trees  do  not  sway  to 
the  wind,  their  trunks  are  constructed  to  stand  solid.  Their 
branches  do  not  bend  and  murmur,  for  they  too  are  rigid  in  fibre. 
Their  fine  thread-like  needles  may  catch  the  breeze's  whisper, 
may  draw  together  and  apart  for  the  exchange  of  confidences 
as  do  the  leaves  of  other  trees,  but  if  so,  you  and  I  are  too  far 
below  to  distinguish  it.  All  about,  the  other  forest  growths  may 
be  rustling  and  bowing  and  singing  with  the  voices  of  the  air ; 
the  Sequoia  stands  in  the  hush  of  an  absolute  calm.  It  is  as 
though  he  dreamed,  too  wrapt  in  still  great  thoughts  of  his 
youth  when  the  earth  itself  was  young,  to  share  the  worldlier 
joys  of  his  neighbor,  to  be  aware  of  them,  even  to  breathe  deeply. 
You  feel  in  the  presence  of  these  trees  as  you  would  feel  in  the 
presence  of  a  kindly  and  benignant  sage,  too  occupied  with 
larger  things  to  enter  fully  into  your  little  affairs,  but  well  dis- 
])osed  in  the  wisdom  of  clear  spiritual  insight. 

This  combination  of  dignity,  immobility,  and  a  certain  serene 
detachment  has  on  me  very  much  the  same  effect  as  does  a 
mountain  against  the  sky.  It  is  quite  unlike  the  impression 
made  by  any  other  tree,  however  large,  and  is  lovable. 


30o  L.lXnsCAPKS 

TIIK   sriRI'I'  (W   TIIK   GARDEN » 
L.  H.  Hailky 

I  STEP  from  the  house,  and  at  once  I  am  released.  I  am  in  a 
new  realm.  This  realm  has  just  been  created,  and  created  for 
me.  I  <;ive  myself  over  to  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky;  or  if  it 
rain,  to  tlrst-hand  relationship  with  the  elements,  —  for  can  I 
not  touch  the  drops  that  fall  from  some  mysterious  height  ? 
I  am  conscious  of  a  quick  smell  of  the  soil,  something  like  the 
smell  of  the  sea.  I  hear  the  call  of  a  bird  or  a  faint  rush  of  wind, 
or  catch  a  shadow  that  passes  and  is  gone.  There  is  a  sudden 
sensation  of  green  things  tumbled  over  the  ground.  I  feel 
that  they  are  living,  growing,  aspiring,  sensitive. 

Then  the  details  begin  to  grow  up  out  of  the  area,  every  detail 
perfect  in  its  way,  every  one  individual,  yet  all  harmonious. 
The  late  rain  compacted  the  earth ;  but  here  are  little  grooves 
and  cuts  made  by  tiny  rills  that  ran  down  the  furrows  and  around 
the  stems  of  the  plants,  coalescing  and  growing  as  they  ran, 
digging  gorges  between  mountainous  clods,  spreading  into 
islanded  lakelets,  depositing  deltas,  and  then  plunging  headlong 
toward  some  far-off  sea,  —  a  panorama  that  needs  only  to  be 
magnified  to  make  those  systems  of  rivers  and  plains  and  moun- 
tains the  names  of  which  I  sought  so  much  in  my  old  geography 
days. 

Soft  green  things  push  up  out  of  the  earth,  growing  by  some 
sweet  alchemy  that  I  cannot  understand  but  that  I  can  feel. 
Green  leaves  e.xpand  to  the  sun  ;  buds  burst  into  flowers  ;  flowers 
change  to  fruits ;  the  pods  burst,  and  berries  wither  and  fall ; 
the  seeds  drop  and  are  lost,  —  yet  I  know  that  nature  the  gar- 
dener will  recover  them  in  due  season. 

Strange  plants  that  I  did  not  want  are  growing  here  and 
there,  and  now  I  find  that  they  are  as  good  as  the  rest,  for  they 
spring  from  the  same  earth  yet  are  unlike  all  others,  they  struggle 
for  place  and  light,  and  they  too  will  have  their  day  and  will 

'  From  The  Outlook  to  Nature.  The  Macmillan  Company,  Revised  Edition. 
Reprinted  by  permission. 


THE  SCENERY  OF   THE  LAKES  36 1 

die  away,  and  in  some  mysterious  process  will  come  again. 
Insects  crawl  here  and  there,  coming  from  strange  crevices  and 
all  of  them  intent.  Earthworms  leave  their  burrows.  All 
these,  too,  pass  on  and  die  and  will  come  again.  A  bird  darts 
in  and  captures  a  flying  insect ;  a  dog  trots  across  the  farther 
end  of  the  plot ;  a  cat  is  hidden  under  the  vines  by  the  wall. 
A  toad  dozes  under  a  bench :  he  will  come  out  to-night. 

It  is  all  a  drama,  intense,  complex,  ever  moving,  always 
dying,  always  re-born.  I  see  a  thousand  actors  moving  in  and 
out,  always  going,  always  coming.  I  am  part  of  the  drama; 
I  break  the  earth ;  I  destroy  this  plant  and  that,  as  if  I  were 
the  arbiter  of  life  and  death.  I  sow  the  seed.  I  see  the  tender 
things  come  up  and  I  feel  as  if  I  had  created  something  new  and 
fine,  that  had  not  been  seen  on  the  earth  before ;  and  I  have  a 
new  joy  as  deep  and  as  intangible  as  the  joy  of  religion. 


THE   SCENERY  OF  THE  LAKES  ^ 

William  Wordsworth 

I  KNOW  not  how  to  give  the  reader  a  distinct  image  of  the 
outlines  of  the  country  more  readily,  than  by  requesting  him 
to  place  himself  with  me,  in  imagination,  upon  some  given  point ; 
let  it  be  the  top  of  either  of  the  mountains.  Great  Gavel,  or 
Scawfell ;  or,  rather,  let  us  suppose  our  station  to  be  a  cloud 
hanging  midway  between  those  two  mountains,  at  not  more 
than  half  a  mile's  distance  from  the  summit  of  each,  and  not 
many  yards  above  their  highest  elevation ;  we  shall  then  see 
stretched  at  our  feet  a  number  of  valleys,  not  fewer  than  eight, 
di\'erging  from  the  point  on  which  we  are  supposed  to  stand, 
like  spokes  from  the  nave  of  a  wheel.  First  we  note  lying  to 
the  south-east  the  vale  of  Langdale,  which  will  conduct  the  eye 
to  the  long  lake  of  Winandermere,  stretched  nearly  to  the  sea ; 
or  rather  to  the  sands  of  the  vast  bay  of  Morcamb,  serving  here 
for  the  rim  of  this  imaginary  wheel ;  —  let  us  trace  it  in  a  direc- 

'  From  A  Guide  through  the  District  of  the  Lakes. 


362  LA.\D5CAPKS 

lion  ln.)m  the  south-east  towards  the  south,  and  wc  shall  next 
tix  our  eyes  upon  the  vale  of  Coniston,  running  up  likewise  from 
tlie  sea,  but  not  (as  all  the  other  valleys  do)  to  the  nave  of  the 
wheel,  and  therefore  it  may  be  not  inaptly  represented  as  a 
broken  spoke  sticking  in  the  rim.  Looking  forth  again,  with 
an  inclination  towards  the  west,  we  see  immediately  at  our  feet 
the  vale  of  Duddon,  in  which  is  no  lake,  but  a  copious  stream, 
winding  among  fields,  rocks,  mountains,  and  terminating 
its  course  in  the  sands  of  Duddon.  The  fourth  vale,  next  to 
be  observed,  viz.  that  of  the  Esk,  is  of  the  same  general  character 
as  the  last,  yet  beautifully  discriminated  from  it  by  peculiar 
features.  Its  stream  passes  under  the  woody  steep  upon  which 
stands  Muncaster  Castle,  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Penningtons, 
and  after  forming  a  short  and  narrow  estuary  enters  the  sea 
below  the  small  tow-n  of  Ravenglass.  Next,  almost  due  west, 
look  down  into  and  along  the  deep  valley  of  Wastdale,  with 
its  little  chapel  and  half-a-dozen  neat  dwellings  scattered  upon 
a  plain  of  meadow  and  corn-ground  intersected  with  stone  walls 
apparently  innumerable,  like  a  large  piece  of  lawless  patch- 
work, or  an  array  of  mathematical  figures,  such  as  in  the  ancient 
schools  of  geometry  might  have  been  sportively  and  fantasti- 
cally traced  out  upon  sand.  Beyond  this  little  fertile  plain  lies, 
wuthin  a  bed  of  steep  mountains,  the  long,  narrow%  stem,  and 
desolate  lake  of  Wastdale ;  and,  beyond  this,  a  dusky  tract  of 
level  ground  conducts  the  eye  to  the  Irish  Sea.  The  stream  that 
issues  from  Wastwater  is  named  the  Irt,  and  falls  into  the  estuary 
of  the  river  Esk.  Next  comes  in  view  Ennerdale,  wdth  its  lake 
of  bold  and  somew^hat  savage  shores.  Its  stream,  the  Ehen 
or  Enna,  flowing  through  a  soft  and  fertile  country,  passes  the 
town  of  Egremont,  and  the  ruins  of  the  castle,  —  then,  seeming, 
like  the  other  rivers,  to  break  through  the  barrier  of  sand  thrown 
up  by  the  winds  on  this  tempestuous  coast,  enters  the  Irish  Sea. 
The  vale  of  Buttermere,  with  the  lake  and  village  of  that  name, 
and  Crummock-water,  beyond,  next  present  themselves.  We 
will  follow  the  main  stream,  the  Coker,  through  the  fertile  and 
beautiful  vale  of  Lorton,  till  it  is  lost  in  the  Derwent,  below  the 
noble  ruins  of  Cockermouth  Castle.     Lastlv,   Borrowdale,   of 


THE  SCENERY  OF   THE  LAKES  363 

which  the  vale  of  Keswick  is  only  a  continuation,  stretching 
due  north,  brings  us  to  a  point  nearly  opposite  to  the  vale  of 
Winandermere  with  which  we  began.  From  this  it  will  appear, 
that  the  image  of  a  wheel,  thus  far  exact,  is  little  more  than  one 
half  complete;  but  the  deficiency  on  the  eastern  side  may  be 
supplied  by  the  vales  of  Wytheburn,  Ulswater,  Hawswater,  and 
the  vale  of  Grasmere  and  Rydal :  none  of  these,  however,  run 
up  to  the  central  point  between  Great  Gavel  and  Scawfell.  From 
this,  hitherto  our  central  point,  take  a  flight  of  not  more  than 
four  or  five  miles  eastward  to  the  ridge  of  Helvellyn,  and  you 
will  look  down  upon  Wytheburn  and  St.  John's  Vale,  which 
are  a  branch  of  the  vale  of  Keswick ;  upon  Ulswater,  stretching 
due  east.  And  not  far  beyond  to  the  south-east  (though  from 
this  point  not  visible)  lie  the  vale  and  lake  of  Hawswater; 
and  lastly,  the  vale  of  Grasmere,  Rydal,  and  Ambleside,  brings 
you  back  to  "W^inandermere,  thus  completing,  though  on  the 
eastern  side  in  a  somewhat  irregular  manner,  the  representative 
figure  of  the  wheel. 

Such,  concisely  given,  is  the  general  topographical  view  of 
the  country  of  the  Lakes  in  the  north  of  England ;  and  it  may 
be  observed  that  from  the  circumference  to  the  centre,  that  is, 
from  the  sea  or  plain  country  to  the  mountain  stations  specified, 
there  is  —  in  the  several  ridges  that  enclose  these  vales,  and 
di\dde  them  from  each  other,  I  mean  in  the  forms  and  surfaces, 
first  of  the  swelling  grounds,  next  of  the  hills  and  rocks,  and 
lastly  of  the  mountains  —  an  ascent  of  almost  regular  grada- 
tion, from  elegance  and  richness  to  their  highest  point  of  grandeur 
and  sublimity.  It  follows  therefore  from  this,  first,  that  these 
rocks,  hills,  and  mountains  must  present  themselves  to  view 
in  stages  rising  above  each  other,  the  mountains  clustering 
together  towards  the  central  point ;  and  next,  that  an  observer 
famihar  with  the  several  vales  must,  from  their  various  position 
in  relation  to  the  sun,  have  had  before  his  eyes  every  possible 
embellishment  of  beauty,  dignity,  and  splendor,  which  light  and 
shadow  can  bestow  upon  objects  so  diversified.  For  example, 
in  the  vale  of  Winandermere,  if  the  spectator  looks  for  gentle 
and  lovely  scenes,  his  eye  is  turned  toward  the  south ;  if  for  the 


364  LAX  DSC A  PES 

grand,  towards  the  iiDrth  :  in  the  vale  of  Keswick,  which  (as 
luith  been  said)  lies  almost  due  north  of  this,  it  is  directly  the 
reverse.  Hence,  when  the  sun  is  setting  in  summer  far  to  the 
north-west,  it  is  seen  by  the  sjK'ctator  from  the  shores  or  breast 
of  Winandermere,  resting  among  the  summits  of  the  loftiest 
mountains,  some  of  which  will  perhaps  be  half  or  wholly  hidden 
by  clouds,  or  by  the  blaze  of  light  which  the  orb  diffuses  around 
it ;  and  the  surface  of  the  lake  will  reflect  before  the  eye  cor- 
respondent colors  through  every  variety  of  beauty  and  through 
all  degrees  of  splendor.  In  the  vale  of  Keswick,  at  the  same  time, 
the  sun  sets  over  the  humbler  regions  of  the  landscape,  and 
showers  down  upon  them  the  radiance  which  at  once  veils  and 
glorifies,  —  sending  forth,  meanwhile,  broad  streams  of  rosy, 
crimson,  purple,  or  golden  light,  towards  the  grand  mountains 
in  the  south  and  south-east,  which,  thus  illuminated,  with  all 
their  projections  and  cavities,  and  with  an  intermixture  of  solemn 
shadows,  are  seen  distinctly  through  a  cool  and  clear  atmosphere. 
Of  course,  there  is  as  marked  a  difference  between  the  noontide 
appearance  of  these  two  opposite  vales.  The  bedimming 
haze  that  overspreads  the  south  and  the  clear  atmosphere  and 
determined  shadows  of  the  clouds  in  the  north,  at  the  same  time 
of  the  day,  are  each  seen  in  these  several  vales  with  a  contrast 
as  striking.  The  reader  will  easily  conceive  in  what  degree 
the  intermediate  vales  partake  of  a  kindred  variety. 

I  do  not  indeed  know  any  tract  of  country  in  which,  within 
so  narrow  a  compass,  may  be  found  an  equal  variety  in  the  in- 
fluences of  light  and  shadow  upon  the  sublime  or  beautiful 
features  of  landscape;  and  it  is  owing  to  the  combined  cir- 
cumstances to  which  the  reader's  attention  has  been  directed. 
From  a  point  between  Great  Gavel  and  Scawfell,  a  shepherd 
would  not  require  more  than  an  hour  to  descend  into  any  one 
of  eight  of  the  principal  vales  by  which  he  would  be  surrounded ; 
and  all  the  others  lie  (w4th  the  exception  of  Hawswater)  at  but 
a  small  distance.  Yet,  though  clustered  together,  every  valley 
has  its  distinct  and  separate  character:  in  some  instances,  as 
if  they  had  been  formed  in  studied  contrast  to  each  other,  and 
in  others  with  the  united  pleasing  differences  and  resemblances 


THE  SCENERY  OF   THE  LAKES  365 

of  a  sisterly  rivalship.  This  concentration  of  interest  gives  to 
the  country  a  decided  superiority  over  the  most  attractive 
districts  of  Scotland  and  Wales,  especially  for  the  pedestrian 
traveller.  In  Scotland  and  Wales  are  found,  undoubtedly, 
individual  scenes,  which,  in  their  several  kinds,  cannot  be 
excelled.  But,  in  Scotland  particularly,  what  long  tracts  of 
desolate  country  intervene  !  so  that  the  traveller,  when  he  reaches 
a  spot  deservedly  of  great  celebrity  would  find  it  difficult  to 
determine  how  much  of  his  pleasure  is  owing  to  excellence  in- 
herent in  the  landscape  itself ;  and  how  much  to  an  instantaneous 
recovery  from  an  oppression  left  upon  his  spirits  by  the  barren- 
ness and  desolation  through  which  he  has  passed. 


m.    C.   CITIES 

VALPARAISO  1 
J  Aires  Bryce 

Tms  is  Valparaiso,  where  the  wanderer  who  has  been  musing 
among  prehistoric  ruins  and  Bolivian  volcanoes  finds  himself 
again  in  the  busy  modern  world.  The  harbor  is  full  of  vessels 
from  all  quarters,  —  coasting  steamers  that  ply  to  Callao  and 
Panama,  sailing  ships  as  well  as  steamers  from  San  Francisco, 
and  others  from  Australia,  mostly  with  cargoes  of  coal,  besides 
vessels  that  have  come  from  Europe  round  Cape  Horn  or  through 
the  Straits  of  Magellan.  The  so-called  harbor  is  really  an  open 
roadstead,  for  there  is  no  shelter  to  the  north,  and  when,  as 
often  happens,  the  dreaded  gale  from  that  quarter  breaks,  ves- 
sels that  have  not  had  time  to  run  out  under  steam  are  in  danger 
of  drifting  ashore,  for  the  water  deepens  so  quickly  from  the 
land  that  they  cannot  anchor  far  out.  Why  not  build  a  break- 
water ?  Because  the  water  is  so  deep  that  the  cost  of  a  break- 
water long  enough  to  give  effective  protection  would  be  enor- 
mous. There  is  a  more  sheltered  haven  some  miles  to  the  north, 
but  as  all  the  business  offices  and  warehouses  are  here,  not  to 
speak  of  the  laboring  population  and  their  houses,  the  idea  of 
moving  the  city  and  railway  terminus  has  not  been  seriously 
considered. 

Seen  from  the  sea,  Valparaiso  is  picturesque,  and  has  a  marked 
character  of  its  own,  though  the  dryness  of  the  hills  and  the 
clearness  of  the  light  make  it  faintly  recall  one  of  those  Spanish 
or  Italian  towns  which  glitter  on  the  steep  shores  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean.    It  resembles  Messina  in  Sicily  in  being  very  long  and 

'  From  Sotith  America.  The  Macmillan  Company,  1912.  Reprinted  by  per 
■lission. 

366 


VALPARAISO  367 

very  narrow,  for  here,  as  there,  the  heights,  rising  abruptly  from  the 
shore,  leave  little  space  for  houses,  and  the  lower  part  of  the  town 
has  less  than  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in  breadth.  On  this  narrow 
strip  are  all  the  places  of  business,  banks,  shipping  offices,  and 
shops,  as  well  as  the  dwellings  of  most  of  the  poorer  class.  On 
the  hills  above,  rising  steeply  two  hundred  feet  or  more,  stands 
the  upper  town,  which  consists  chiefly  of  the  residences  of  the 
richer  people.  Their  villas,  interspersed  with  gardens,  have  a 
pretty  effect  seen  from  below,  and  in  rambling  along  the  lines 
that  run  up  to  heights  behind  one  gets  charming  views  over  the 
long  line  of  coast  to  the  north.  Communication  between  the 
lower  and  upper  towns  is  carried  on  chiefly  by  elevators  (lifts) 
or  trolley  cars  worked  on  the  cog-wheel  system. 

At  the  time  of  my  visit,  the  city  was  half  in  ruins,  rebuilding 
itself  after  a  terrible  earthquake.  The  lower  town  had  suffered 
most,  for  here,  as  at  Messina  and  at  San  Francisco,  buildings 
erected  on  soft  alluvial  ground  were  overthrown  more  frequently 
and  completely  than  those  that  stood  on  a  rocky  foundation. 
The  opportunity  was  being  taken  to  widen  and  straighten  the 
principal  thoroughfares,  and  to  open  up  some  of  the  overcrowded 
poorer  districts.  The  irregularities  of  the  site  between  a  sinuous 
coastline  and  spurs  projecting  from  the  hills  make  the  city  plan 
less  uniform  and  rectangular  than  in  most  Spanish-American 
cities,  and  though  nothing  is  old  and  there  is  little  architectural 
variety,  still  the  bright  colors  of  the  houses  washed  in  blue  or 
white,  the  glimpses  of  rocky  heights  seen  at  the  eastern  end  of 
all  the  cross  streets  and  of  the  sea  glittering  at  the  western  give 
a  quality  of  its  own  to  the  lower  town,  while  the  upper  town  has 
its  steep  gardens  and  tree  clumps  and  wide  prospects  over  the 
bay  and  the  jutting  capes  beyond. 

But  Valparaiso  is  perhaps  most  picturesque  when  seen  from  a 
steamer  anchored  in  the  bay,  especially  when  its  white  houses 
and  hills,  green  for  a  few  weeks  in  spring,  meet  the  eyes  of  one 
who  comes  from  the  barren  deserts  of  Bolivia  and  the  nitrate 
region.  In  front  are  the  ocean  steamers  and  the  tall  spars  of 
Australian  clippers ;  nearer  shore  the  smaller  craft  arc  tossing 
on  the  ocean  swell ;    the  upper  town  is  seen  rising  on  its  cliffs 


368  CITIILS 

bfhiiul  ihf  lower,  with  liij^h  pastures  and  rocky  hummocks  still 
further  hack.  Far  away  in  the  northeast  the  snowy  mass  of 
Aconca.i^ua,  loftiest  of  all  American  summits,  lloats  like  a  white 
cloud  on  the  horizon. 


AN  INDIAN  VILLAGE' 
Francis  Parkman 

Go  to  the  banks  of  the  Illinois  where  it  flows  by  the  village  of 
Utica,  and  stand  on  the  meadow  that  borders  it  on  the  north. 
In  front  glides  the  river,  a  musket-shot  in  width ;  and  from  the 
farther  bank  rises,  with  a  gradual  slope,  a  range  of  wooded  hills 
that  hide  from  sight  the  vast  prairie  behind  them.  A  mile  or 
more  on  your  left  these  gentle  acclivities  end  abruptly  in  the 
lofty  front  of  the  great  cliff,  called  by  the  French  the  Rock  of 
St.  Louis,  looking  boldly  out  from  the  forests  that  environ  it ; 
and,  three  miles  distant  on  your  right,  you  discern  a  gap  in  the 
steep  bluffs  that  here  bound  the  valley,  marking  the  mouth  of 
the  river  Vermilion,  called  Aramoni  by  the  French.  Now  stand 
in  fancy  on  this  same  spot  in  the  early  autumn  of  the  year  1680. 
You  are  in  the  midst  of  the  great  town  of  the  Illinois,  —  hun- 
dreds of  mat-covered  lodges,  and  thousands  of  congregated 
savages.  Enter  one  of  their  dwellings  :  they  will  not  think  you 
an  intruder.  Some  friendly  squaw  w^ill  lay  a  mat  for  you  by  the 
fire ;  you  may  seat  yourself  upon  it,  smoke  your  pipe,  and  study 
the  lodge  and  its  inmates  by  the  light  that  streams  through 
the  hole  at  the  top.  Three  or  four  fires  smoke  and  smoulder 
on  the  ground  down  the  middle  of  the  long  arched  structure ;  and, 
as  to  each  fire  there  are  two  families,  the  place  is  somewhat 
crowded  when  all  are  present.  But  now  there  is  breathing  room, 
for  many  are  in  the  field.  A  squaw  sits  weaving  a  mat  of 
rushes ;  a  warrior,  naked  except  his  moccasins,  and  tattooed 
with  fantastic  devices,  binds  a  stone  arrow-head  to  its  shaft  with 
the  fresh  sinews  of  a  buffalo.     Some  lie  asleep,  some  sit  staring  in 

'  I'rom  The  Discovery  oj  the  Great  West. 


IN  FRONT  OF   THE  ROYAL  EXCHANGE  369 

vacancy,  some  are  eating,  some  are  squatted  in  lazy  chat  around 
a  fire.  The  smoke  brings  water  to  your  eyes ;  the  fleas  annoy 
you;  small  unkempt  children,  naked  as  young  puppies,  crawl 
about  your  knees  and  will  not  be  repelled.  You  have  seen 
enough.  You  rise  and  go  out  again  into  the  sunlight.  It  is,  if 
not  a  peaceful,  at  least  a  languid  scene.  A  few  voices  break  the 
stillness,  mingled  with  the  joyous  chirping  of  crickets  from  the 
grass.  Young  men  lie  flat  on  their  faces,  basking  in  the  sun. 
A  group  of  their  elders  are  smoking  around  a  buffalo  skin  on 
which  they  have  just  been  playing  a  game  of  chance  with  cherry- 
stones. A  lover  and  his  mistress,  perhaps,  sit  together  under 
a  shed  of  bark,  without  uttering  a  word.  Not  far  off  is  the  grave- 
yard, where  lie  the  dead  of  the  village,  some  buried  in  the  earth, 
some  wrapped  in  skins  and  laid  aloft  on  scaffolds,  above  the 
reach  of  wolves.  In  the  cornfields,  you  see  squaws  at  their 
labor,  and  children  driving  off  intruding  birds ;  and  your  eye 
ranges  over  the  meadows  beyond,  spangled  with  the  yellow 
blossoms  of  the  resin-weed  and  the  Rudbeckia,  or  over  the 
bordering  hills  still  green  with  the  foliage  of  summer. 


IN  FRONT  OF  THE  ROYAL  EXCHANGE  1 

Richard  Jefferies 

There  is  a  place  in  front  of  the  Royal  Exchange  where  the 
wide  pavement  reaches  out  like  a  promontory.  It  is  in  the  shape 
of  a  triangle  with  a  rounded  apex.  A  stream  of  traffic  runs  on 
either  side,  and  other  streets  send  their  current  down  into  the 
open  space  before  it.  Like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel,  converging 
streams  of  human  life  flow  into  this  agitated  pool.  Horses  and 
carriages,  carts,  vans,  omnibuses,  cabs,  every  kind  of  conveyance 
cross  each  other's  course  in  every  possible  direction.  Twisting 
in  and  out  by  the  wheels  and  under  the  horses'  heads,  working 
a  devious  way,  men  and  women  of  all  conditions  wind  a  path 
over.     They  fill  the  interstices  between  the  carriages  and  blacken 

1  From  The  Story  of  My  Heart.     Longmans,  Green  and  Company. 
2  B 


370  CITIES 

the  surface,  till  the  vans  almost  tloat  on  human  hciiiKs.  Now  tlie 
streams  slacken,  anil  now  they  rush  amain,  but  ne\er  cease; 
dark  waves  are  always  rollinf^  down  the  incline  opposite,  waves 
swell  out  from  the  side  rivers,  all  London  converges  into  this 
focus.  There  is  an  indistinguishable  noise  —  it  is  not  clatter, 
hum,  or  roar,  it  is  not  resolvable ;  made  up  of  a  thousand  thou- 
sand footsteps,  from  a  thousand  hoofs,  a  thousand  wheels  —  of 
haste,  and  shufile,  and  quick  movements,  and  ponderous  loads ; 
no  attention  can  resolve  it  into  a  fixed  sound. 

Blue  carts  and  yellow  omnibuses,  varnished  carriages  and 
brown  vans,  green  omnibuses  and  red  cabs,  pale  loads  of  yellow 
straw,  rusty-red  iron  clanking  on  paintless  carts,  high  white 
woolpacks,  gray  horses,  bay  horses,  black  teams ;  sunlight 
sparkling  on  brass  harness,  gleaming  from  carriage  panels; 
jingle,  jingle,  jingle  !  An  intermixed  and  intertangled,  cease- 
lessly changing  jingle,  too,  of  color ;  flecks  of  color  champed,  as 
it  were,  like  bits  in  the  horses'  teeth,  frothed  and  strewn  about, 
and  a  surface  always  of  dark-dressed  people  winding  like  the 
curves  on  fast-flowing  water.  This  is  the  vortex  and  whirlpool, 
the  centre  of  human  life  to-day  on  the  earth.  Now  the  tide 
rises  and  now  it  sinks,  but  the  flow*  of  these  rivers  always  con- 
tinues. Here  it  seethes  and  whirls,  not  for  an  hour  only,  but  for 
all  present  time,  hour  by  hour,  day  by  day,  year  by  year. 

Here  it  rushes  and  pushes,  the  atoms  triturate  and  grind,  and, 
eagerly  thrusting  by,  pursue  their  separate  ends.  Here  it  ap- 
pears in  its  unconcealed  personality,  indifferent  to  all  else  but 
itself,  absorbed  and  rapt  in  eager  self,  devoid  and  stripped  of 
conventional  gloss  and  politeness,  yielding  only  to  get  its  ow-n 
way;  driving,  pushing,  carried  on  in  a  stress  of  feverish  force 
like  a  bullet,  dynamic  force  apart  from  reason  or  will,  like  the 
force  that  lifts  the  tides  and  sends  the  clouds  onwards.  The 
friction  of  a  thousand  interests  evolves  a  condition  of  electricity 
in  which  men  are  moved  to  and  fro  without  considering  their 
steps.  Yet  the  agitated  pool  of  life  is  stonily  indifferent,  the 
thought  is  absent  or  preoccupied,  for  it  is  evident  that  the  mass 
are  unconscious  of  the  scene  in  which  they  act. 

But  it  is  more  sternly  real  than  the  very  stones,  for  all  these 


IN  FRONT  OF   THE  ROYAL  EXCHANGE  371 

men  and  women  that  pass  through  are  driven  on  by  the  push  of 
accumulated  circumstances;  they  cannot  stay,  they  must  go, 
their  necks  are  in  the  slave's  ring,  they  are  beaten  like  seaweed 
against  the  solid  walls  of  fact.  In  ancient  times,  Xerxes,  the 
king  of  kings,  looking  down  upon  his  myriads,  wept  to  think 
that  in  a  hundred  years  not  one  of  them  would  be  left.  Where 
will  be  these  millions  of  to-day  in  a  hundred  years  ?  But, 
further  than  that,  let  us  ask.  Where  will  then  be  the  sum  and 
outcome  of  their  labor?  If  they  wither  away  like  summer 
grass,  will  not  at  least  a  result  be  left  which  those  of  a  hundred 
years  hence  may  be  the  better  for  ?  No,  not  one  jot !  There 
will  not  be  any  sum  or  outcome  or  result  of  this  ceaseless  labor 
and  movement ;  it  vanishes  in  the  moment  that  it  is  done ;  and 
in  a  hundred  years  nothing  will  be  there,  for  nothing  is  there 
now.  There  will  be  no  more  sum  or  result  than  accumulates 
from  the  motion  of  a  revolving  cowl  on  a  housetop.  Nor  do 
they  receive  any  more  sunshine  during  their  lives,  for  they  are 
unconscious  of  the  sun. 


m.    D.   BUILDINGS 
ENGLISH  COTTAGES! 

John  Ruskin 

The  principal  thing  worthy  of  observation  in  the  lowland 
cottage  of  England  is  its  finished  neatness.  The  thatch  is  firmly 
pegged  down,  and  mathematically  levelled  at  the  edges;  and, 
though  the  martin  is  permitted  to  attach  its  humble  domicile, 
in  undisturbed  security,  to  the  eaves,  he  may  be  considered  as 
enhancing  the  effect  of  the  cottage,  by  increasing  its  usefulness 
and  making  it  contribute  to  the  comfort  of  more  beings  than 
one.  The  whitewash  is  stainless,  and  its  rough  surface  catches 
a  side  light  as  brightly  as  a  front  one :  the  luxuriant  rose  is 
trained  gracefully  over  the  mndow;  and  the  gleaming  lattice, 
dixided  not  into  heavy  squares,  but  into  small  pointed  diamonds, 
is  thrown  half  open,  as  is  just  discovered  by  its  glance  among  the 
green  leaves  of  the  sweet  brier,  to  admit  the  breeze,  that,  as  it 
passes  over  the  flowers,  becomes  full  of  their  fragrance.  The 
light  wooden  porch  breaks  the  flat  of  the  cottage  face  by  its 
projection ;  and  a  branch  or  two  of  wandering  honeysuckle 
spread  over  the  low  hatch.  A  few  square  feet  of  garden  and  a 
latched  wicket,  persuading  the  weary  and  dusty  pedestrian, 
with  excessive  eloquence,  to  lean  upon  it  for  an  instant  and 
request  a  drink  of  water  or  milk,  complete  a  picture,  which,  if  it 
be  far  enough  from  London  to  be  unspoiled  by  town  sophistica- 
tions, is  a  very  perfect  thing  in  its  way.  The  ideas  it  awakens 
are  agreeable,  and  the  architecture  is  all  that  we  want  in  such  a 
situation.  It  is  pretty  and  appropriate;  and  if  it  boasted  of 
any  other  perfection,  it  would  be  at  the  expense  of  its  propriety. 

'  From  The  Poetry  of  Arckitec'ure. 
372 


THE  KEEPERS  HOUSE  373 

THE  KEEPER'S  HOUSED 

Thomas  Hardy 

It  was  a  satisfaction  to  walk  into  the  keeper's  house,  even  as 
a  stranger,  on  a  fine  spring  morning  Hke  the  present.  A  curl  of 
wood  smoke  came  from  the  chimney  and  drooped  over  the  roof 
like  a  blue  feather  in  a  lady's  hat ;  and  the  sun  shone  obliquely 
upon  the  patch  of  grass  in  front,  which  reflected  its  brightness 
through  the  open  doorway  and  up  the  staircase  opposite,  light- 
ing up  each  riser  with  a  shiny  green  radiance  and  leaving  the 
top  of  each  step  in  shade. 

The  window-sill  of  the  front  room  was  between  four  and  five 
feet  from  the  floor,  dropping  inwardly  to  a  broad  low  bench, 
over  which,  as  well  as  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  wall  beneath, 
there  always  hung  a  deep  shade,  which  was  considered  objec- 
tionable on  every  ground  save  one,  namely,  that  the  perpetual 
sprinkling  of  seeds  and  water  by  the  caged  canary  above  was 
not  noticed  as  an  eyesore  by  visitors.  The  window  was  set 
with  thickly  leaded  diamond  glazing,  formed,  especially  in  the 
lower  panes,  of  knotty  glass  of  various  shades  of  green.  Nothing 
was  better  known  to  Fancy  than  the  extravagant  manner  in 
which  these  circular  knots  or  eyes  distorted  everything  seen 
through  them  from  the  outside  —  lifting  hats  from  heads, 
shoulders  from  bodies ;  scattering  the  spokes  of  cart  wheels, 
and  bending  the  straight  fir  trunks  into  semicircles.  The 
ceiling  was  carried  by  a  beam  traversing  its  midst,  from  the 
side  of  which  projected  a  large  nail,  used  solely  and  constantly 
as  a  peg  for  Geoffrey's  hat ;  the  nail  was  arched  by  a  rainbow- 
shaped  stain,  imprinted  by  the  brim  of  the  said  hat  when  it 
was  hung  there  dripping  wet. 

The  most  striking  point  about  the  room  was  the  furniture. 
This  was  a  repetition  upon  inanimate  objects  of  the  old  prin- 
ciple introduced  by  Noah,  consisting  for  the  most  part  of  two 
articles  of  every  sort.  The  duplicate  system  of  furnishing  owed 
its  existence  to  the  forethought  of  Fancy's  mother,  exercised 

'  From  Under  the  Greenwood  Tree. 


74 


BUILDINGS 


from  the  day  of  Fancy's  birthday  onwards.  The  arrangement 
sj)oke  for  itself:  nobody  who  knew  the  tone  of  the  household 
could  look  at  the  goods  without  being  aware  that  the  second  set 
was  a  i^rovision  for  Fancy  when  she  should  marry  and  have  a 
house  of  her  own.  The  most  noticeable  instance  was  a  pair  of 
green-faced  eight-day  clocks  ticking  alternately,  which  were 
severally  two-and-a-half  minutes  and  three  minutes  striking 
the  hour  of  twelve,  one  proclaiming,  in  Italian  flourishes,  Thomas 
Wood  as  the  name  of  its  maker,  and  the  other  —  arched  at  the 
top,  and  altogether  of  more  cynical  appearance  —  that  of 
Ezekiel  Saunders.  They  were  two  departed  clockmakers  of 
Casterbridge,  whose  desperate  rivalry  throughout  their  lives 
was  nowhere  more  emphatically  perpetuated  than  here  at 
Geoffrey's.  These  chief  s[)ecimcns  of  the  marriage  provision 
were  supported  on  the  right  by  a  couple  of  kitchen  dressers,  each 
fitted  complete  with  their  cups,  dishes,  and  plates,  in  their  turn 
followed  by  two  dumb-waiters,  two  family  Bibles,  two  warming- 
pans,  and  two  intermixed  sets  of  chairs. 

But  the  position  last  reached  —  the  chimney-corner  —  was, 
after  all,  the  most  attractive  side  of  the  parallelogram.  It  was 
large  enough  to  admit,  in  addition  to  Geoffrey  himself,  Geoffrey's 
wiie,  her  chair,  and  her  work-table,  entirely  within  the  line  of 
the  mantel,  without  danger  or  even  inconvenience  from  the 
heat  of  the  fire ;  and  was  spacious  enough  overhead  to  allow 
the  insertion  of  wood  poles  for  the  hanging  of  bacon,  which  were 
cloaked  with  long  shreds  of  soot  floating  on  the  draught  like 
the  tattered  banners  on  the  walls  of  ancient  aisles. 

These  points  were  common  to  most  chimney-corners  of  the 
neighborhood ;  but  one  feature  there  was  which  made  Geoffrey's 
fireside  not  only  an  object  of  interest  to  casual  aristocratic  visi- 
tors —  to  whom  every  cottage  fireside  was  more  or  less  a  curi- 
osity —  but  the  admiration  for  friends  who  were  accustomed  to 
fireplaces  of  the  ordinary  hamlet  model.  This  peculiarity  was 
a  little  window  in  the  chimney  back,  almost  over  the  fire,  around 
which  the  smoke  crept  caressingly  when  it  left  the  perpendicular 
course.  The  window  board  was  curiously  stamped  with  black 
circles,  burnt  thereon  by  the  heated  bottoms  of  drinking-cups 


EXPOSITION  HALL  AND  BRIDGE  SHOP  375 

which  had  rested  there  after  previously  standing  on  the  hot 
ashes  of  the  hearth  for  the  purpose  of  warming  their  contents, 
the  result  giving  to  the  ledge  the  look  of  an  envelope  which  has 
passed  through  innumerable  post-offices. 


EXPOSITION  HALL  AND   BRIDGE   SHOP  ^ 

One  of  the  principal  structures  for  the  International  Building 
Exposition  at  Leipzig  is  the  164  X  342  feet  steel-frame  building 
designed  by  Paul  Banft,  of  Leipzig,  built  by  Grohmann  &  Frosch, 
and  rented  to  the  exposition  for  use  as  Machinery  Hall.  The 
building  was  designed  with  special  consideration  for  its  subse- 
quent use  by  the  builders  as  a  bridge  shop,  and  its  arrangement 
and  equipment  of  travelling  cranes  are  intended  to  serve  both 
purposes. 

It  is  about  sixty-seven  and  one-half  feet  high  to  the  top  of  the 
main  roof  and  has  one  eighty-five  feet  centre  aisle  commanded 
by  two  ten-ton  travelling  cranes,  and  two  thirty-nine  feet  side 
aisles  with  single  five-ton  cranes.  The  general  design  of  the 
building  conforms  closely  to  advanced  steel-shop  construction 
in  this  country,  but  the  details  vary  considerably  from  it  in  some 
of  the  important  members.  The  wall  columns,  twenty-three 
feet  apart,  carry  the  side  aisle  roof  trusses  directly,  and  the 
centre-aisle  columns,  sixty-nine  feet  apart,  carry  riveted  longi- 
tudinal trusses  about  fourteen  feet  deep,  each  of  which  sup- 
ports two  intermediate  centre  and  side-aisle  roof  trusses,  while 
every  third  roof  truss  is  carried  directly  on  the  columns.  The 
centre-aisle  columns  are  double  with  two  H-shape  shafts  four 
and  a  half  feet  apart  transversely,  with  their  feet  riveted  between 
the  webs  of  a  single  long,  wide,  structural-steel  pedestal. 

The  inner  shaft  has  a  much  lighter  section  and  is  braced  to  it 
with  horizontal  and  diagonal  struts  forming  essentially  the  wel) 
members  of  a  vertical  truss.  Riveted  to  the  face  of  this  column 
are  the  runway  trusses  four  and  one-half  feet  deep,  of  the  ten-ton 

1  From  The  Engineering  Record,  January  17,  1914. 


376  lU'lLPLWGS 

craiio  girilors.  As  tlu'sc  jj;ir(U'rs  arc  thus  offset  nearly  five  feet 
l)ey()iul  the  centre  oi  the  main  lonj^itiuhnal  girders,  they  are 
sup|H)rtecl  from  the  latter  at  intermediate  points  by  cantilever 
brackets  twenty-three  feet  apart,  which  |)roduce  eccentric  load- 
ing on  the  longitudinal  trusses.  The  building  is  lighted  by  large 
continuous  window  areas  in  the  side  walls  and  in  the  inclined 
clere-story  surfaces  of  the  centre-aisle  roof  and  monitor. 


SECOXD-STORY   BUNG.'VLOW  APARTMENTS  ^ 

A  COLONY  of  one-Story  bungalows  built  about  a  court  on  the 
roof  of  a  block  of  stores  is  a  new  idea  in  the  apartment  houses 
which  has  recently  been  realized  in  Long  Beach,  California. 
From  the  street  the  bungalow  apartment  building  looks  like 
an  ordinary  brick  business  l)lock  with  shops  below  and  flats  on 
the  second  floor.  But  the  stairway  from  the  street,  instead  of 
leading  to  a  second  story,  takes  one  to  a  broad  sunny  court  on 
the  roof  of  the  shops.  Down  the  centre  of  the  court  is  a  pergola 
with  flower  boxes  beneath  it,  and  around  the  four  sides  are 
tlie  low  gables  of  seventeen  one-story  Swiss- chalet  bungalows. 
Flower  boxes  under  the  windows,  and  plaster  walls  trimmed  with 
dark  wood,  make  them  look  like  a  row  of  bungalows  on  the 
street.  In  all  there  are  two  tw^o-room,  four  three-room,  and 
eleven  four-room  bungalow  apartments  about  the  court.  Each 
pair  of  bungalows  has  a  common  sheltered  porch,  recessed  so 
that  the  entrance  doors  open  into  the  living  rooms.  Their 
kitchens  and  dining  rooms  face  the  court  and  their  living  and 
sleeping  rooms  overlook  the  street.  Each  has  its  own  bathroom 
and  plenty  of  closet  room.  The  common  laundry  is  not  in  the 
basement,  but  on  the  roof  of  one  of  the  bungalows,  and  clothes 
are  hung  out  on  the  roofs  of  the  kitchens  unseen  from  the  street 
below.  The  floor  of  the  court  is  covered  with  heavy  deck  roofing, 
drained  by  a  gutter  in  the  centre,  and  garbage  is  taken  care  of  in 
boxes  with  ventilating  pipes  leading  through  the  roof. 

>  From  Popular  Mecluinks,  October,  1913. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  HOME  377 

THE  DOCTOR'S  HOME  1 

F.  HoPKiNSON  Smith 

The  Doctor  is  not  one  of  your  new-fashioned  doctors  quartered 
in  a  brownstone  house  off  the  Avenue,  with  a  butler  opening  the 
door;  a  pair  of  bob- tailed  grays;  a  coupe  with  a  note-book  tucked 
away  in  its  pocket  bearing  the  names  of  various  millionaires ; 
an  office  panelled  in  oak;  a  waiting-room  lined  with  patients 
reading  last  month's  magazines  until  he  should  send  for  them. 
He  has  no  such  abode  nor  belongings.  He  lives  all  alone  by 
himself  in  an  old-fashioned  house  on  Bedford  Place  —  oh,  such 
a  queer,  hunched-up  old  house  and  such  a  quaint  old  neighbor- 
hood poked  away  behind  Jefferson  Market  —  and  he  opens  the 
door  himself  and  sees  everybody  who  comes  —  there  are  not  a 
great  many  of  them  nowadays,  more's  the  pity. 

There  are  only  a  few  such  houses  left  up  the  queer  old-fash- 
ioned street  where  he  lives.  The  others  were  pulled  down  long 
ago,  or  pushed  out  to  the  line  of  the  sidewalk  and  three  or  four 
stories  piled  on  top  of  them.  Some  of  these  modern  ones  have 
big,  carved  marble  porticos,  made  of  painted  zinc  and  fastened 
to  the  new  brickwork.  Inside  these  portals  are  a  row  of  bronze 
bells  and  a  line  of  speaking  tubes  with  cards  below  bearing  the 
names  of  those  who  dwell  above. 

The  Doctor's  house  is  not  like  one  of  these.  It  would  have 
been  had  it  not  belonged  to  his  old  mother,  who  died  long  ago 
and  who  begged  him  never  to  sell  it  while  he  lived.  He  was 
thirty  years  younger  then,  but  he  is  still  there  and  so  is  the  old 
house.  It  looks  a  little  ashamed  of  its  shabbiness  when  you 
come  upon  it  suddenly  hiding  behind  its  pushing  neighbors. 
First  comes  an  iron  fence  with  a  gate  never  shut,  and  then  a 
flagged  path  dividing  a  grass-plot,  and  then  an  old-fashioned 
wooden  stoop  with  two  steps,  guarded  by  a  wooden  railing  (many 
a  day  since  these  were  painted) ;  and  over  these  railings  and 
up  the  supports  which  carry  the  roof  of  the  portico,  straggles  a 

'From  "'Doc'  Shipman's  Fee,"  in  7'/(c  I/wier  Z?og.  Charles  Scribncr's  Sons. 
Reprinted  by  permission. 


378  BUILDINGS 

honeysucklr  (hat  docs  its  l)est  to  hide  the  shabl)incss  of  the 
shinnies  and  tho  old  waterspout  and  saK^ing  gutter,  and  fails 
miserably  when  it  gets  to  the  farther  cornice,  which  has  rotted 
away,  showing  under  its  dismal  paint  the  black  and  brown  rust 
of  decaying  wood. 

Then  way  in  under  the  portico  comes  the  door  with  the  name- 
plate,  and  next  to  it,  level  with  the  floor  of  the  piazza  or  jwrtico 

—  either  you  please,  for  it  is  a  combination  of  both  —  are  two 
long  French  windows,  always  open  in  summer  evenings  and 
a-light  on  winter  nights  with  the  reflection  of  the  Doctor's  soft- 
coal  fire,  telling  of  the  warmth  and  cheer  within. 

For  it  is  a  cheery-  place.  It  doesn't  look  like  a  doctor's  office. 
There  are  dingy  haircloth  sofas,  it  is  true,  and  a  row  of  shelves 
with  bottles,  and  funny-looking  boxes  on  the  mantel  —  one  an 
electric  batter}'  —  and  rows  and  rows  of  books  on  the  walls. 
But  there  are  no  dreadful  instruments  about.  If  there  are,  you 
don't  see  them. 

The  big  chair  he  sits  in  would  swallow  up  a  smaller  man.  It 
is  covered  with  Turkey  red  and  has  a  roll  cushion  for  his  head. 
There  are  two  of  these  chairs  —  one  for  you,  or  me;  this  last 
has  big  arms  that  come  out  and  catch  you  under  the  elbows,  a 
mighty  help  to  a  man  when  he  has  just  learned  that  his  liver 
or  lungs  or  heart  or  some  other  part  of  him  has  gone  wrong  and 
needs  overhauling. 

Then  there  is  a  canary  that  sings  all  the  time,  and  a  small  dog 

—  oh,  such  a  low-down,  ill-bred,  tousled  dog ;  kind  of  a  dog  that 
might  have  been  raised  around  a  lumber-yard  —  was,  probably  — 
one  ear  gone,  half  of  his  tail  missing ;  and  there  are  some  pots 
of  flowers,  and  on  the  wall  near  the  window  where  everybody 
can  see  is  a  case  of  butterflies  impaled  on  pins  and  covered  by  a 
glass.  No,  you  wouldn't  think  the  Doctor's  office  a  gruesome 
place,  and  you  certainly  wouldn't  think  the  Doctor  was  a  grue- 
some person  —  not  when  you  come  to  know  him. 


LANDOR'S  COTTAGE  379 

LANDOR'S   COTTAGE 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 

Nothing  could  well  be  more  simple  —  more  utterly  unpre- 
tending than  this  cottage.  Its  marvellous  efect  lay  altogether 
in  its  artistic  arrangement  as  a  picture.  I  could  have  fancied, 
while  I  looked  at  it,  that  some  eminent  landscape  painter  had 
built  it  with  his  brush. 

The  point  of  view  from  which  I  first  saw  the  cottage  was  not 
altogether,  although  it  was  nearly,  the  best  point  from  which  to 
survey  the  house.  I  will  therefore  describe  it  as  I  afterwards 
saw  it  —  from  a  position  on  the  stone  wall  at  the  southern  ex- 
treme of  the  amphitheatre. 

The  main  building  was  about  twenty-four  feet  long  and  six- 
teen broad  —  certainly  not  more.  Its  total  height,  from  the 
ground  to  the  apex  of  the  roof,  could  not  have  exceeded  eighteen 
feet.  To  the  west  end  of  this  structure  was  attached  one  about 
a  third  smaller  in  all  its  proportions :  —  the  line  of  its  front 
standing  back  about  two  yards  from  that  of  the  larger  house ; 
and  the  line  of  its  roof,  of  course,  being  considerably  depressed 
below  that  of  the  roof  adjoining.  At  right  angles  to  these 
buildings,  and  from  the  rear  of  the  main  one  —  not  exactly  in 
the  middle  —  extended  a  third  compartment,  very  small  — 
being,  in  general,  one  third  less  than  the  western  wing.  The 
roofs  of  the  two  larger  were  very  steep  —  sweeping  down  from 
the  ridge-beam  with  a  long  concave  curve,  and  extending  at  least 
four  feet  beyond  the  walls  in  front,  so  as  to  form  the  roofs  of 
two  piazzas.  These  latter  roofs,  of  course,  needed  no  support ; 
but  as  they  had  the  air  of  needing  it,  slight  and  perfectly  plain 
pillars  were  inserted  at  the  corners  alone.  The  roof  of  the 
northern  wing  was  merely  an  extension  of  a  portion  of  the  main 
roof.  Between  the  chief  building  and  western  wing  arose  a  very 
tall  and  rather  slender  square  chimney  of  hard  Dutch  bricks, 
alternately  black  and  red,  —  a  slight  cornice  of  projecting  bricks 
at  the  top.  Over  the  gables  the  roofs  also  projected  very  much, 
—  in  the  main  building  about  four  feet  to  the  east  and  two  to  the 


380  iirn.n/.\c;s 

west.  The  princijxil  door  was  not  exactly  in  the  main  division, 
hcing  a  little  to  the  east  —  while  the  two  windows  were  to  the 
west.  These  latter  did  not  extend  to  the  floor,  but  were  much 
longer  and  narrower  than  usual  —  they  had  single  shutters  like 
doors  —  the  panes  were  of  lozenge  form,  but  cjuite  large.  The 
door  itself  had  its  upper  half  of  glass,  also  in  lozenge  jjanes  —  a 
movable  shutter  secured  it  at  night.  The  door  to  the  west 
wing  was  in  its  gable,  and  quite  simple  —  a  single  window  looked 
out  to  the  south.  There  was  no  external  door  to  the  north 
wing,  and  it  also  had  only  one  window  to  the  east. 

The  blank  wall  of  the  eastern  gable  was  relieved  by  stairs 
(with  a  balustrade)  running  diagonally  across  it  —  the  ascent 
being  from  the  south.  Under  cover  of  the  \ndely  projecting 
cave  these  steps  gave  access  to  a  door  leading  into  the  garret, 
or  rather  loft  —  for  it  was  lighted  only  by  a  single  window  to  the 
north,  and  seemed  to  have  been  intended  as  a  store-room. 

The  piazzas  of  the  main  building  and  western  wing  had  no 
floors,  as  is  usual ;  but  at  the  doors  and  at  each  window,  large, 
flat,  irregular  slabs  of  granite  lay  embedded  in  the  delicious 
turf,  affording  comfortable  footing  in  all  weather.  Excellent 
paths  of  the  same  material  —  not  nicely  adapted,  but  with  the 
velvety  sod  filling  frequent  intervals  between  the  stones,  led 
hither  and  thither  from  the  house,  to  a  crystal  spring  about 
five  paces  off,  to  the  road,  or  to  one  or  two  out-houses  that  lay 
to  the  north,  beyond  the  brook,  and  were  thoroughly  concealed 
by  a  few  locusts  and  catalpas. 

Not  more  than  sLx  steps  from  the  main  door  of  the  cottage 
stood  the  dead  trunk  of  a  fantastic  pear-tree,  so  clothed  from 
head  to  foot  in  the  gorgeous  begonia  blossoms  that  one  required 
no  little  scrutiny  to  determine  what  manner  of  sweet  thing  it 
could  be.  From  various  arms  of  this  tree  hung  cages  of  differ- 
ent kinds.  In  one,  a  large  wicker  cylinder  \\dth  a  ring  at  top, 
revelled  a  mocking  bird ;  in  another,  an  oriole ;  in  a  third  the 
impudent  bobolink  —  while  three  or  four  more  delicate  prisons 
were  loudly  vocal  with  canaries. 

The  pillars  of  the  piazza  were  enwreathed  in  jasmine  and  sweet 
honeysuckle ;   while  from  the  angle  formed  by  the  main  struc- 


THE  ANCIENT  PALACE  AT  JEVPORE  38 1 

cure  and  its  west  wing,  sprang  a  grapevine  of  unexampled 
luxuriance.  Scorning  all  restraint,  it  had  clambered  first  to 
the  lower  roof  —  then  to  the  higher ;  and  along  the  ridge  of  this 
latter  it  continued  to  writhe  on,  throwing  out  tendrils  to  the 
right  and  left,  until  at  length  it  fairly  attained  the  east  gable, 
and  fell  trailing  over  the  stairs. 

The  whole  house,  with  its  wings,  was  constructed  of  the  old- 
fashioned  Dutch  shingles  —  broad,  and  with  unrounded  corners. 
It  is  a  peculiarity  of  this  material  to  give  houses  built  of  it  the 
appearance  of  being  wider  at  bottom  than  top  —  after  the 
manner  of  Egyptian  architecture ;  and  in  the  present  instance, 
this  exceedingly  picturescjue  effect  was  aided  by  numerous  pots 
of  gorgeous  flowers  that  almost  encompassed  the  base  of  the 
buildings. 

The  shingles  were  painted  a  dull  gray;  and  the  happiness 
with  which  this  neutral  tint  melted  into  the  vivid  green  of  the 
tulip  tree  leaves  that  partially  overshadowed  the  cottage,  can 
readily  be  conceived  by  an  artist. 

From  the  position  near  the  stone  wall,  as  described,  the 
buildings  were  seen  at  great  advantage  —  for  the  southeastern 
angle  was  thrown  forward  —  so  that  the  eye  took  in  at  once  the 
whole  of  the  two  fronts,  with  the  picturesque  eastern  gable,  and 
at  the  same  time  obtained  just  a  sufficient  glimpse  of  the  north- 
ern wing,  with  parts  of  a  pretty  roof  to  the  spring-house,  and 
nearly  half  of  a  light  bridge  that  spanned  the  brook  in  the  near 
vicinity  of  the  main  buildings. 


THE  ANCIENT  PALACE  AT  JEYPORE  ^ 

RuDYARD  Kipling 

The  Englishman  went  into  this  palace  built  of  stone,  bedded 
on  stone,  springing  out  of  scarped  rock,  and  reached  by  stone 
ways  —  nothing  but  stone.     Presently,  he  stumbled  across  a 

1  From  From  Sea  lo  Sea. 


382  Bl'ILDiyCS 

little  temple  of  Kali,  a  gem  of  marble  tracery  and  inlay,  very  dark 
and,  at  that  hour  of  the  morning,  very  cold. 

If.  as  Viollet-lc-Duc  tells  us  to  believe,  a  building  reflects  the 
character  of  its  inhabitants,  it  must  be  impossible  for  one  reared 
in  an  Eastern  palace  to  think  straightly  or  speak  freely  or  —  but 
here  the  annals  of  Rajputana  contradict  the  theory  —  to  act 
openly.  The  cramped  and  darkened  rooms,  the  narrow  smooth- 
walled  passages  with  recesses  where  a  man  might  wait  for  his 
enemy  unseen,  the  maze  of  ascending  and  descending  stairs 
leading  nowhither,  the  ever-present  screens  of  marble  tracery 
that  may  hide  or  reveal  so  much,  —  all  these  things  breathe  of 
plot  and  counterplot,  league  and  intrigue.  In  a  living  palace 
where  the  sight-seer  knows  and  feels  that  there  are  human  beings 
everywhere,  and  that  he  is  followed  by  scores  of  unseen  eyes, 
the  impression  is  almost  unendurable.  In  a  dead  palace  —  a 
cemetery  of  loves  and  hatreds  done  with  hundreds  of  years  ago, 
and  of  plottings  that  had  for  their  end,  though  the  graybeards 
who  plotted  knew  it  not,  the  coming  of  the  British  tourist  with 
guide-book  and  sun-hat  —  oppression  gives  place  to  simply 
impertinent  curiosity.  The  Englishman  wandered  into  all 
parts  of  the  palace,  for  there  was  no  one  to  stop  him  —  not  even 
the  ghosts  of  the  dead  Queens  —  through  ivory-studded  doors, 
into  the  women's  quarters,  where  a  stream  of  water  once  flowed 
over  a  chiselled  marble  channel.  A  creeper  had  set  its  hand 
upon  the  lattice  there,  and  there  was  the  dust  of  old  nests  in  one 
of  the  niches  in  the  wall.  Did  the  lady  of  light  virtue  who  man- 
aged to  become  possessed  of  so  great  a  portion  of  Jey  Singh's 
library  ever  set  her  dainty  feet  in  the  trim  garden  of  the  Hall  of 
Pleasure  beyond  the  screen-work  ?  Was  it  in  the  forty-pillared 
Hall  of  Audience  that  the  order  went  forth  that  the  Chief  of 
Birjooghar  was  to  be  slain,  and  from  what  wall  did  the  King 
look  out  when  the  horsemen  clattered  up  the  steep  stone  path 
to  the  palace,  bearing  on  their  saddle-bows  the  heads  of  the 
bravest  of  Rajore?  There  were  questions  innumerable  to  be 
asked  in  each  court  and  keep  and  cell ;  but  the  only  answer  was 
the  cooing  of  the  pigeons. 

If  a  man  desired  beauty,  there  was  enough  and  to  spare  in  the 


ST.   MARK'S  383 

palace;  and  of  strength  more  than  enough.  With  inlay  and 
carved  marble,  with  glass  and  color,  the  Kings  who  took  their 
pleasure  in  that  now  desolate  pile  made  all  that  their  eyes  rested 
upon  royal  and  superb.  But  any  description  of  the  artistic 
side  of  the  palace,  if  it  were  not  impossible,  would  be  wearisome. 
The  wise  man  will  visit  it  when  time  and  occasion  serve,  and 
will  then,  in  some  small  measure,  understand  what  must  have 
been  the  riotous,  sumptuous,  murderous  life  to  which  our  Gov- 
ernors and  Lieutenant-Governors,  Commissioners  and  Deputy- 
Commissioners,  Colonels  and  Captains  and  the  Subalterns,  have 
put  an  end. 

ST.   MARK'S  1 
John  Ruskin 

And  now  I  wish  that  the  reader,  before  I  bring  him  into  St. 
Mark's  Place,  would  imagine  himself  for  a  little  time  in  a  quiet 
English  cathedral  town,  and  walk  with  me  to  the  west  front  of 
its  cathedral.  Let  us  go  together  up  the  more  retired  street, 
at  the  end  of  which  we  can  see  the  pinnacles  of  one  of  the  towers, 
and  then  through  the  low,  gray  gateway  with  its  battlemented 
top  and  small  latticed  window  in  the  centre,  into  the  inner 
private-looking  road  or  close,  where  nothing  goes  in  but  the 
carts  of  the  tradesmen  who  supply  the  bishop  and  the  chapter, 
and  where  there  are  little  shaven  grass-plots,  fenced  in  by  neat 
rails,  before  old-fashioned  groups  of  somewhat  diminutive  and 
excessively  trim  houses,  with  little  oriel  and  bay  windows  jutting 
out  here  and  there,  and  deep  wooden  cornices  and  eaves  painted 
cream  color  and  white,  and  small  porches  to  their  doors  in  the 
shape  of  cockle-shells,  or  little,  crooked,  thick,  indescribable 
wooden  gables  warped  a  little  on  one  side ;  and  so  forward  till 
we  come  to  larger  houses,  also  old-fashioned,  but  of  red  brick, 
and  with  gardens  behind  them,  and  fruit  walls,  which  show  here 
and  there,  among  the  nectarines,  the  vestiges  of  an  old  cloister 
arch  or  shaft ;  and  looking  in  front  on  the  cathedral  square  itself, 

'  From  The  Stones  of  Venice. 


384  BriLDIXGS 

laid  out  in  rij^id  divisions  of  smooth  grass  and  gravel  walk,  yet 
not  uncluvrful.  csiHrially  on  the  sunny  side,  where  the  canons' 
children  are  walking  with  their  nursery-maids.  And  so,  taking 
care  not  to  tread  on  the  grass,  we  will  go  along  the  straight  walk  to 
the  west  front,  and  there  stand  for  a  time,  looking  u{)  at  its  deep- 
pointed  porches  and  the  dark  places  between  their  pillars  where 
there  were  statues  once,  and  where  the  fragments,  here  and  there, 
of  a  stately  tigure  are  still  left,  which  has  in  it  the  likeness  of  a 
king,  perhaps  indeed  a  king  on  earth,  perhaps  a  saintly  king 
long  ago  in  heaven ;  and  so  higher  and  higher  up  to  the  great 
mouldering  wall  of  rugged  sculpture  and  confused  arcades, 
shattered,  and  gray,  and  grisly  with  heads  of  dragons  and  mock- 
ing fiends,  worn  by  the  rains  and  swirling  winds  into  yet  un- 
seemlier  shape,  and  colored  on  their  stony  scales  by  the  deep 
russet-orange  lichen,  melancholy  gold ;  and  so,  higher  still,  to 
the  bleak  towers,  so  far  above  that  the  eye  loses  itself  among  the 
bosses  of  their  traceries,  though  they  are  rude  and  strong,  and 
only  sees,  like  a  drift  of  eddN-ing  black  points,  now  closing,  now 
scattering,  and  now  settling  suddenly  into  in\isible  places  among 
the  bosses  and  flowers,  the  crowd  of  restless  birds  that  fill  the 
whole  square  with  that  strange  clangor  of  theirs,  so  harsh  and 
yet  so  soothing,  like  the  cries  of  birds  on  a  solitary  coast  between 
the  cliits  and  sea. 

Think  for  a  little  while  of  that  scene,  and  the  meaning  of  all 
its  small  formalisms,  mixed  with  its  serene  sublimity.  Estimate 
its  secluded,  continuous,  drowsy  felicities,  and  its  evidence  of 
the  sense  and  steady  performance  of  such  kind  of  duties  as  can 
be  regulated  by  the  cathedral  clock ;  and  weigh  the  influence  of 
those  dark  towers  on  all  who  have  passed  through  the  lonely 
square  at  their  feet  for  centuries,  and  on  all  who  ha\e  seen  them 
rising  far  away  over  the  wooded  plain,  or  catching  on  their 
square  masses  the  last  rays  of  the  sunset,  when  the  city  at  their 
feet  was  infiicated  only  by  the  mist  at  the  bend  of  the  river, 
and  then  let  us  quickly  recollect  that  we  are  in  Venice,  and  land 
at  the  extremity  of  the  Calle  Lunga  San  Moise,  which  may  be 
considered  as  there  answering  to  the  secluded  street  that  led  us 
to  our  English  cathedral  gateway. 


ST.   MARK'S  385 

We  find  ourselves  in  a  paved  alley,  some  seven  feet  wide  where 
it  is  widest,  full  of  people,  and  resonant  with  cries  of  itinerant 
salesmen,  —  a  shriek  in  their  beginning,  and  dying  away  into  a 
kind  of  brazen  ringing,  all  the  worse  for  its  confinement  between 
the  high  houses  of  the  passage  along  which  we  have  to  make  our 
way.  Overhead,  an  inextricable  confusion  of  rugged  shutters, 
and  iron  balconies,  and  chimney  flues,  pushed  out  on  brackets 
to  save  room,  and  arched  wdndows  with  projecting  sills  of  Istrian 
stone,  and  gleams  of  green  leaves  here  and  there,  where  a  fig-tree 
branch  escapes  over  a  lower  wall  from  some  inner  cortile,  leading 
the  eye  up  to  the  narrow  stream  of  blue  sky  high  over  all.  On 
each  side,  a  row  of  shops,  as  densely  set  as  may  be,  occupying, 
in  fact,  intervals  between  the  square  stone  shafts,  about  eight 
feet  high,  which  carry  the  first  floors  :  intervals  of  which  one  is 
narrow  and  serves  as  a  door ;  the  other  is,  in  the  more  respect- 
able shops,  wainscoted  to  the  height  of  the  counter  and  glazed 
above,  but  in  those  of  the  poorer  tradesmen  left  open  to  the 
ground,  and  the  wares  laid  on  benches  and  tables  in  the  open  air, 
the  light  in  all  cases  entering  at  the  front  only,  and  fading  away 
in  a  few  feet  from  the  threshold  into  a  gloom  which  the  eye  from 
without  cannot  penetrate,  but  which  is  generally  broken  by  a  ray 
or  two  from  a  feeble  lamp  at  the  back  of  the  shop,  suspended 
before  a  print  of  the  Virgin.  The  less  pious  shopkeeper  some- 
times leaves  his  lamp  unlighted,  and  is  contented  with  a  penny 
print ;  the  more  religious  one  has  his  print  colored  and  set  in  a 
little  shrine  with  a  gilded  or  figured  fringe,  with  perhaps  a  faded 
flower  or  two  on  each  side,  and  his  lamp  burning  brilliantly. 
Here,  at  the  fruiterer's,  where  the  dark  green  watermelons  are 
heaped  upon  the  counter  like  cannon-balls,  the  Madonna  has  a 
tabernacle  of  fresh  laurel  leaves ;  but  the  pewterer  next  door  has 
let  his  lamp  out,  and  there  is  nothing  to  be  seen  in  his  shop  but 
the  dull  gleam  of  the  studded  patterns  on  the  copper  pans, 
hanging  from  his  roof  in  the  darkness.  Next  comes  a  "  Vendita 
Frittole  e  Liquori,"  where  the  Virgin,  enthroned  in  a  very  humble 
manner  beside  a  tallow  candle  on  a  back  shelf,  presides  over 
certain  ambrosial  morsels  of  a  nature  too  ambiguous  to  be  de- 
fined or  enumerated.     But,  a  few  steps  farther  on,  at  the  regular 


380  BClLDiyCS 

wine  shop  oi  the  callc,  whore  wc  are  olTered  "\'in'>  Xoslrani  a 
Soldi  28-2:?,''  the  Madonna  is  in  grviii  j^lory,  enthroned  above 
ten  or  a  dozen  larj^e  red  casks  of  ihree-year-old  vintage,  and 
flanked  by  goodly  ranks  of  bottles  of  Maraschino,  and  two 
crimson  lamps;  and  for  the  evening,  when  tlie  gondoliers  will 
come  to  drink  out,  under  her  auspices,  the  money  they  have 
gained  during  the  day,  s!ie  will  have  a  whole  chandelier. 

A  yard  or  two  farther,  we  pass  the  hostelry  of  the  Black  Eagle, 
and  glancing  as  we  pass  through  the  square  door  of  marble, 
deeply  moulded,  in  the  outer  wall,  we  see  the  shadows  of  its 
pergola  of  \ines  resting  on  an  ancient  well,  with  a  pointed  shield 
car\'ed  on  its  side ;  and  so  presently  emerge  on  the  bridge  and 
Campo  San  ^ioise,  whence  to  the  entrance  into  St.  Mark's  Place, 
called  the  Bocca  di  Piazza  (mouth  of  the  square),  the  Venetian 
character  is  nearh-  destroyed,  first  by  the  frightful  fa(;ade  of 
San  Moise,  which  we  will  pause  at  another  time  to  examine,  and 
then  by  the  modernizing  of  the  shops  as  they  near  the  piazza, 
and  the  mingling  with  the  lower  Venetian  populace  of  lounging 
groups  of  English  and  Austrians.  We  will  push  fast  through 
them  into  the  shadow  of  the  pillars  at  the  end  of  the  ''Bocca  di 
Piazza,"  and  then  we  forget  them  all ;  for  between  those  pillars 
there  opens  a  great  Hght,  and,  in  the  midst  of  it,  as  we  advance 
slowly,  the  vast  tower  of  St.  Mark  seems  to  lift  itself  visibly 
forth  from  the  level  field  of  chequered  stones ;  and,  on  each  side, 
the  countless  arches  prolong  themselves  into  ranged  symmetry, 
as  if  the  rugged  and  irregular  houses  that  pressed  together  abo\e 
us  in  the  dark  alley  had  been  struck  back  into  sudden  obedience 
and  lovely  order,  and  all  their  rude  casements  and  broken  walls 
had  been  transformed  into  arches  charged  with  goodly  sculpture, 
and  fluted  shafts  of  delicate  stone. 

And  well  may  they  fall  back,  for  beyond  those  troops  of  or- 
dered arches  there  rises  a  vision  out  of  the  earth,  and  all  the 
great  square  seems  to  have  opened  from  it  in  a  kind  of  awe,  that 
we  may  see  it  far  away ;  a  multitude  of  pillars  and  white 
domes,  clu-stered  into  a  long  low  pyramid  of  colored  light ; 
a  treasure-heap  it  seems,  partly  of  gold,  and  partly  of  opal 
and  mother-of-pearl,  hollowed  beneath  into  five  great  vaulted 


ST.  MARK'S  387 

porches,  ceiled  with  fair  mosaic,  and  beset  with  sculpture  of 
alabaster,  clear  as  amber  and  delicate  as  ivory,  —  sculptures 
fantastic  and  involved,  of  palm  leaves  and  lilies,  and  grapes 
and  pomegranates,  and  birds  clinging  and  fluttering  among  the 
branches,  all  twined  together  into  an  endless  network  of  buds 
and  plumes ;  and,  in  the  midst  of  it,  the  solemn  forms  of  angels, 
sceptred,  and  robed  to  the  feet,  and  leaning  to  each  other  across 
the  gates,  their  figures  indistinct  among  the  gleaming  of  the 
golden  ground  through  the  leaves  beside  them,  interrupted  and 
dim,  like  the  morning  light  as  it  faded  back  among  the  branches 
of  Eden,  when  first  its  gates  were  angel-guarded  long  ago.  And 
round  the  walls  of  the  porches  there  are  set  pillars  of  variegated 
stones,  jasper  and  porphyry,  and  deep-green  serpentine  spotted 
with  flakes  of  snow,  and  marbles,  that  half  refuse  and  half  yield 
to  the  sunshine,  Cleopatra-like,  "their  bluest  veins  to  Idss," — 
the  shadow,  as  it  steals  back  from  them,  reveaHng  hne  after 
line  of  azure  undulation,  as  a  receding  tide  leaves  the  waved 
sand ;  their  capitals  rich  with  interwoven  tracery,  rooted  knots 
of  herbage,  and  drifting  leaves  of  acanthus  and  vine,  and  mys- 
tical signs,  all  beginning  and  ending  in  the  Cross ;  and  above 
them,  in  the  broad  archivolts,  a  continuous  chain  of  language 
and  of  life  —  angels,  and  the  signs  of  heaven,  and  the  labors  of 
men,  each  in  its  appointed  season  upon  the  earth ;  and  above 
these,  another  range  of  glittering  pinnacles,  mixed  with  white 
arches  edged  with  scarlet  flowers,  —  a  confusion  of  delight, 
amidst  which  the  breasts  of  the  Greek  horses  are  seen  blazing 
in  their  breadth  of  golden  strength,  and  the  St.  Mark's  lion, 
lifted  on  a  blue  field  covered  with  stars,  until  at  last,  as  if  in 
ecstasy,  the  crests  of  the  arches  break  into  a  marble  foam,  and 
toss  themselves  far  into  the  blue  sky  in  flashes  and  wreaths  of 
sculptured  spray,  as  if  the  breakers  on  the  Lido  shore  had  been 
frost-bound  before  they  fell,  and  the  sea-nymphs  had  inlaid  them 
with  coral  and  amethyst. 

Between  that  grim  cathedral  of  England  and  this,  what  an 
interval !  There  is  a  type  of  it  in  the  very  birds  that  haunt 
them ;  for,  instead  of  the  restless  crowd,  hoarse-voiced  and 
sable-winged,  drifting  on  the  bleak  upper  air,  the  St.  Mark's 


3S8  BUILDISGS 

porches  are  full  of  ilin-cs,  that  nestle  among  the  marble  foliage, 
and  mingle  the  soft  iridescence  of  their  living  jjlumes,  changing 
at  every  motion,  with  the  tints,  hardly  less  lovely,  that  have 
stood  unchanged  for  seven  hundred  years. 

And  what  etTect  has  this  splendor  on  those  who  pass  beneath 
it  ?  You  may  walk  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  to  and  fro,  before 
the  gateway  of  St,  Mark's,  and  you  will  not  see  an  eye  lifted 
to  it,  nor  a  countenance  brightened  by  it.  Priest  and  layman, 
soldier  and  civilian,  rich  and  poor,  pass  by  it  alike  regardlessly. 
Up  to  the  very  recesses  of  the  porches,  the  meanest  tradesmen  of 
the  city  push  their  counters ;  nay,  the  foundations  of  its  pillars 
are  themselves  the  seats  —  not  "of  them  that  sell  doves"  for 
sacrifice,  but  of  the  vendors  of  toys  and  caricatures.  Round 
the  whole  square  in  front  of  the  church  there  is  almost  a  continu- 
ous line  of  cafes,  where  the  idle  Venetians  of  the  middle  classes 
lounge,  and  read  empty  journals;  in  its  centre  the  Austrian 
bands  play  during  the  time  of  vespers,  their  martial  music  jar- 
ring with  the  organ  notes,  —  the  march  drowning  the  miserere, 
and  the  sullen  crowd  thickening  round  them,  —  a  crowd  which, 
if  it  had  its  will,  would  stiletto  every  soldier  that  pipes  to  it. 
And  in  the  recesses  of  the  porches,  all  day  long,  knots  of  men  of 
the  lowest  classes,  unemployed  and  listless,  lie  basking  in  the 
sun  like  lizards ;  and  unregarded  children,  —  every  heavy  glance 
of  their  young  eyes  full  of  desperation  and  stony  depravity,  and 
their  throats  hoarse  with  cursing,  —  gamble,  and  fight,  and  snarl, 
and  sleep,  hour  after  hour,  clashing  their  bruised  centesimi  upon 
the  marble  ledges  of  the  church  porch.  And  the  images  of 
Christ  and  His  angels  look  down  upon  it  continually. 

That  we  may  not  enter  the  church  out  of  the  midst  of  the 
horror  of  this,  let  us  turn  aside  under  the  portico  which  looks 
towards  the  sea,  and  passing  round  within  the  two  massive  pil- 
lars brought  from  St.  Jean  d'Acre,  we  shall  find  the  gate  of  the 
Baptistery ;  let  us  enter  there.  The  heavy  door  closes  behind 
us  instantly,  and  the  light  and  the  turbulence  of  the  Piazzetta 
are  together  shut  out  by  it. 

We  are  in  a  low  vaulted  room ;  vaulted,  not  with  arches,  but 
with  small  cupolas  starred  with  gold,  and  chequered  with  gloomy 


ST.   MARK'S  389 

figures :  in  the  centre  is  a  bronze  font  charged  with  rich  bas-re- 
liefs, a  small  figure  of  the  Baptist  standing  above  it  in  a  single 
ray  of  light  that  glances  across  the  narrow  room,  dying  as  it 
falls  from  a  window  high  in  the  wall,  and  the  first  thing  that  it 
strikes,  and  the  only  thing  that  it  strikes  brightly,  is  a  tomb.  We 
hardly  know  if  it  be  a  tomb  indeed ;  for  it  is  like  a  narrow  couch 
set  beside  the  window,  low-roofed  and  curtained,  so  that  it 
might  seem,  but  that  it  is  some  height  above  the  pavement,  to 
have  been  drawn  towards  the  window,  that  the  sleeper  might 
be  wakened  early ;  only  there  are  two  angels  who  have  drawn 
the  curtain  back,  and  are  looking  down  upon  him.  Let  us  look 
also,  and  thank  that  gentle  light  that  rests  upon  his  forehead 
for  ever,  and  dies  away  upon  his  breast. 

The  face  is  of  a  man,  in  middle  life,  but  there  are  two  deep 
furrows  right  across  the  forehead,  dividing  it  like  the  founda- 
tions of  a  tower ;  the  height  of  it  above  is  bound  by  the  fillet 
of  the  ducal  cap.  The  rest  of  the  features  are  singularly 
small  and  delicate,  the  lips  sharp,  perhaps  the  sharpness  of 
death  being  added  to  that  of  the  natural  lines ;  but  there  is  a 
sweet  smile  upon  them,  and  a  deep  serenity  upon  the  whole 
countenance.  The  roof  of  the  canopy  above  has  been  blue, 
filled  with  stars ;  beneath,  in  the  centre  of  the  tomb  on  which 
the  figure  rests,  is  a  seated  figure  of  the  Virgin,  and  the  border  of 
it  all  around  is  of  flowers  and  soft  leaves,  growing  rich  and  deep, 
as  if  in  a  field  in  summer. 

It  is  the  Doge  Andrea  Dandolo,  a  man  early  great  among 
the  great  of  Venice ;  and  early  lost.  She  chose  him  for  her  king 
in  his  thirty-sixth  year ;  he  died  ten  years  later,  leaving  behind 
him  that  history  to  which  we  owe  half  of  what  we  know  of  her 
former  fortunes. 

Look  around  at  the  room  in  which  he  lies.  The  floor  of  it  is  of 
rich  mosaic,  encomipassed  by  a  low  seat  of  red  marble,  and  its 
walls  are  of  alabaster,  but  worn  and  shattered,  and  darkly  stained 
with  age,  almost  a  ruin,  —  in  places  the  slabs  of  marble  have 
fallen  away  altogether,  and  the  rugged  brickwork  is  seen  through 
the  rents,  but  all  beautiful ;  the  ravaging  fissures  fretting  their 
way  among  the  islands  and  channeled  zones  of  the  alabaster, 


390 


BUILDISGS 


antl  llic  tiinc-stains  on  its  translucent  masses  darkened  into 
fieltis  of  rich  golden  brown,  like  the  color  of  seaweed  when  the 
sun  strikes  on  it  througii  (leeji  sea.  The  light  fades  away  into 
the  recess  of  the  chamber  towards  the  altar,  and  the  eye  can 
hardly  trace  the  lines  of  the  bas-relief  behind  it  of  the  baptism 
of  Christ :  but  on  the  vaulting  of  the  roof  the  figures  are  distinct, 
and  there  are  seen  upon  it  two  great  circles,  one  surrounded  by 
the  "Principalities  and  j)owers  in  heavenly  places,"  of  which 
Milton  has  expressed  the  ancient  division  in  the  single  massy 
line, — 

"Thrones,  Dominations,  Princedoms,  Virtues,  Powers," 

and  around  the  other,  the  Apostles ;  Christ  the  centre  of  both : 
and  upon  the  walls,  again  and  again  repeated,  the  gaunt  figure 
of  the  Baptist,  in  every  circumstance  of  his  life  and  death  ;  and 
the  streams  of  the  Jordan  running  down  between  their  cloven 
rocks;  the  axe  laid  to  the  root  of  a  fruitless  tree  that  springs 
upon  their  shore.  "Every  tree  that  bringeth  not  forth  good 
fruit  shall  be  hewn  down,  and  cast  into  the  fire."  Yes,  verily : 
to  be  baptized  with  fire,  or  to  be  cast  therein ;  it  is  the  choice 
set  before  all  men.  The  march-notes  still  murmur  through  the 
grated  window,  and  mingle  with  the  sounding  in  our  ears  of  the 
sentence  of  judgment,  which  the  old  Greek  has  written  on  that 
Baptistery  wall.    Venice  has  made  her  choice. 

He  who  lies  under  that  stony  canopy  would  have  taught  her 
another  choice,  in  his  day,  if  she  would  have  listened  to  him ; 
but  he  and  his  counsels  have  long  been  forgotten  by  her,  and  the 
dust  lies  upon  his  lips. 

Through  the  heavy  door  whose  bronze  network  closes  the 
place  of  his  rest,  let  us  enter  the  church  itself.  It  is  lost  in  still 
deeper  twilight,  to  which  the  eye  must  be  accustomed  for  some 
moments  before  the  form  of  the  building  can  be  traced;  and 
then  there  opens  before  us  a  vast  cave,  hewn  out  into  the  form 
of  a  Cross,  and  divided  into  shadowy  aisles  by  many  pillars. 
Round  the  domes  of  its  roof  the  light  enters  only  through  narrow 
apertures  like  large  stars ;  and  here  and  there  a  ray  or  two  from 
some  far-away  casement  wanders  into  the  darkness,  and  casts  a 


ST.   MARK'S 


391 


narrow  phosphoric  stream  upon  the  waves  of  marble  that  heave 
and  fall  in  a  thousand  colors  along  the  floor.  What  else  there  is 
of  light  is  from  torches,  or  silver  lamps,  burning  ceaselessly  in 
the  recesses  of  the  chapels ;  the  roof  sheeted  with  gold,  and  the 
polished  walls  covered  vath  alabaster,  give  back  at  every  curve 
and  angle  some  feeble  gleaming  to  the  flames;  and  the  glories 
round  the  heads  of  the  sculptured  saints  flash  out  upon  us  as 
we  pass  them,  and  sink  again  into  the  gloom.  Under  foot  and 
over  head,  a  continual  succession  of  crowded  imagery,  one  pic- 
ture passing  into  another,  as  in  a  dream ;  forms  beautiful  and 
terrible  mixed  together;  dragons  and  serpents,  and  ravening 
beasts  of  prey,  and  graceful  birds  that  in  the  midst  of  them 
drink  from  running  fountains  and  feed  from  vases  of  crystal ;  the 
passions  and  the  pleasures  of  human  life  symbolized  together, 
and  the  mystery  of  its  redemption  ;  for  the  mazes  of  interwoven 
lines  and  changeful  pictures  lead  always  at  last  to  the  Cross, 
lifted  and  carved  in  every  place  and  upon  every  stone ;  some- 
times with  the  serpent  of  eternity  wrapt  round  it,  sometimes 
with  doves  beneath  its  arms,  and  sweet  herbage  growing  forth 
from  its  feet ;  but  conspicuous  most  of  all  on  the  great  rood  that 
crosses  the  church  before  the  altar,  raised  in  bright  blazonry 
against  the  shadow  of  the  apse.  And  although  in  the  recesses 
of  the  aisles  and  chapels,  when  the  mist  of  the  incense  hangs 
heavily,  we  may  see  continually  a  figure  traced  in  faint  lines 
upon  their  marble,  a  woman  standing  with  her  eyes  raised  to 
heaven,  and  the  inscription  above  her,  "Mother  of  God,"  she 
is  not  here  the  presiding  deity.  It  is  the  Cross  that  is  first  seen, 
and  always  burning  in  the  centre  of  the  temple ;  and  every  dome 
and  hollow  of  its  roof  has  the  figure  of  Christ  in  the  utmost 
height  of  it,  raised  in  power,  or  returning  in  judgment. 

Nor  is  this  interior  without  effect  on  the  minds  of  the  people. 
At  every  hour  of  the  day  there  are  groups  collected  before  the 
various  shrines,  and  solitary  worshippers  scattered  through  the 
darker  places  of  the  church,  evidently  in  prayer  both  deep  and 
reverent,  and,  for  the  most  part,  profoundly  sorrowful.  The 
devotees  at  the  greater  number  of  the  renowned  shrines  of 
Romanism  may  be  seen  murmuring  their  appointed  prayers 


3q2  •  BUILDISGS 

with  Wiindcring  ovcs  and  uiu'n^a}j;c(i  gestures ;  hut  the  step  ol 
the  stranger  chics  not  disturb  those  who  kneel  on  the  pavement 
of  St.  Mark's  ;  and  hardly  a  monienl  passes,  from  early  morning 
to  sunset,  in  which  we  may  not  see  some  half-veiled  figure  enter 
beneath  the  Arabian  porch,  cast  itself  into  long  al^asement  on 
the  lloor  of  the  temple,  and  then  rising  slowly  with  more  con- 
firmed step,  and  with  a  passionate  kiss  and  clasp  of  the  arms 
given  to  the  feet  of  the  crucilix,  by  which  the  lamps  burn  always 
in  the  northern  aisle,  leave  the  church,  as  if  comforted. 


m.    E.   ANIMALS 
THE  WALRUS  1 

C.  Lloyd  Morgan 

A  HUGE  ugly  brute  is  the  walrus.  His  blunt  stubbly  snout, 
his  great  tusks,  twenty  inches  or  more  in  length,  his  small, 
bloodshot,  angry  eye,  his  shaved-off  ear,  his  low  forehead  (though 
the  form  of  the  brain  within  points  to  possibilities  of  unsuspected 
intelligence),  his  wrinkled  skin,  scarred  and  gnarled  with  many 
a  wound,  give  him  anything  but  a  prepossessing  appearance. 
His  forequarters  are  exceedingly  massive  and  heavy,  the  body 
tapering  backwards;  and  when  he  squats  on  the  ice  his  hind- 
quarters are  so  bent  forward  as  to  give  his  back  a  rounded  curve. 
His  front  limbs  are  embedded  in  the  huge  forequarters  to  the 
elbow  and  are  converted  into  flipper  paddles  which  can  be 
turned  forwards  at  the  wrist.  His  hind  limbs  are  enveloped 
in  the  general  skin  of  the  body  as  far  as  the  ankles,  the  almost 
invisible  tail  lying  in  the  fold  of  loose  skin  which  connects  them 
heel  to  heel.  The  feet  can  be  turned  forward  at  the  ankle 
during  progression  on  land  or  ice,  and  their  under  surfaces, 
as  also  those  of  the  fore-feet,  are  provided  with  rough  warty 
ridges  giving  them  foothold  on  smooth  ice  and  rock.  With 
these  awkward  limbs  (awkward  for  progression  on  land)  they 
hitch,  flop,  and  straddle  along  in  a  clumsy,  indolent  fashion; 
though  when  hard  pressed  or  alarmed  they  can  break  into  a 
hobbling  canter. 

Such  is  the  walrus  on  the  ice.  But  let  him  tumble  into  the 
water  and  he  is  a  different  being.  There  he  is  at  his  ease.  The 
hind  feet  held  backwards  form  a  powerful  stern  propeller  —  the 

'  From  Animal  Sketches.     Edward  Arnold. 
393 


3Q4  ANI\fALS 

fore  flippers,  cflkiciU  shovel-shaped  paddles.  I  Us  unj^ainly 
awkwardness  is  exchanged  ior  complete  and  most  excellent 
mastery.  He  will  tear  through  the  water;  and  if  he  has  been 
hanH)oned  he  will  tow  a  large  boat  astern  as  it  if  were  a  cockle- 
shell. He  will  dive  with  consummate  ease  as  to  the  manner 
born.  The  simultaneousness,  says  Mr.  Lamont,  with  which 
a  hertl  of  walruses  will  dive  and  rea])pear  again  is  remarkable. 
One  moment  you  see  a  hundred  grisly  heads  and  long  gleaming 
white  tusks  above  the  waves ;  they  give  one  spout  from  their 
blowholes,  take  one  breath  of  fresh  air,  and  the  next  moment 
you  see  a  hundred  brown  hemispherical  backs,  the  next  a  hun- 
dred pair  of  hind  flippers  flourishing ;  and  then  in  a  twinkling 
they  are  all  down.  Yes  I  The  walrus  can  swim  and  dive 
excellently.  In  the  water  he  is  at  home.  Like  the  British  tar 
he  leaves  his  awkwardness  ashore. 


KUSA-HIBARI  ^ 

Lafcadio  Hearn 

His  cage  is  exactly  two  Japanese  inches  high  and  one  inch 
and  a  half  wide:  its  tiny  wooden  door,  turning  upon  a  pivot, 
will  scarcely  admit  the  tip  of  my  little  finger.  But  he  has  plenty 
of  room  in  that  cage,  —  room  to  walk,  and  jump,  and  fly ;  for 
he  is  so  small  that  you  must  look  very  carefully  through  the 
brown-gauze  sides  of  it  in  order  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  him.  I 
have  always  to  turn  the  cage  round  and  round,  several  times,  in 
a  good  light,  before  I  can  discover  his  whereabouts ;  and  then  I 
usually  find  him  resting  in  one  of  the  upper  corners,  —  clinging, 
upside  down,  to  his  ceiling  of  gauze. 

Imagine  a  cricket  about  the  size  of  an  ordinary  mosquito,  — 
with  a  pair  of  antenna  much  longer  than  his  own  body,  and  so 
fine  that  you  can  distinguish  them  only  against  the  light.  Kusa- 
Hibari,  or  "Grass-Lark,"  is  the  Japanese  name  of  him ;  and  he 
is  worth  in  the  market  exactly  twelve  cents:  that  is  to  say, 

'  From  Kolld.    The  Macmillan  Company,  1902.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


KUSA-HIBARI  395 

very  much  more  than  his  weight  in  gold.  Twelve  cents  for  such 
a  gnat-like  thing  !  .  .  . 

By  day  he  sleeps  or  meditates,  except  while  occupied  with 
the  slice  of  fresh  egg-plant  or  cucumber  which  must  be  poked 
into  his  cage  every  morning.  ...  To  keep  him  clean  and  well 
fed  is  somewhat  troublesome:  could  you  see  him,  you  would 
think  it  absurd  to  take  any  pains  for  the  sake  of  a  creature  so 
ridiculously  small. 

But  always  at  sunset  the  infinitesimal  soul  of  him  awakens : 
then  the  room  begins  to  fill  with  a  delicate  and  ghostly  music 
of  indescribable  sweetness,  —  a  thin,  thin  silvery  rippling  and 
trilling  as  of  tiniest  electric  bells.  As  the  darkness  deepens, 
the  sound  becomes  sweeter,  —  sometimes  thinning  down  into 
the  faintest  imaginable  thread  of  a  voice.  But  loud  or  low, 
it  keeps  a  penetrating  quality  that  is  weird.  All  night  the 
atomy  thus  sings :  he  ceases  only  when  the  temple  bell  proclaims 
the  hour  of  dawn. 

Now  this  tiny  song  is  a  song  of  love,  —  vague  love  of  the  un- 
seen and  unknown.  It  is  quite  impossible  that  he  should  ever 
have  seen  or  known,  in  this  present  existence  of  his.  Not  even 
his  ancestors,  for  many  generations  back,  could  have  known 
anything  of  the  night-life  of  the  fields,  or  the  amorous  value 
of  song.  They  were  born  of  eggs  hatched  in  a  jar  of  clay,  in 
the  shop  of  some  insect-merchant;  and  they  dwelt  thereafter 
only  in  cages.  But  he  sings  the  song  of  his  race  as  it  was  sung 
a  myriad  years  ago,  and  as  faultlessly  as  if  he  understood  the 
exact  significance  of  every  note.  Of  course  he  did  not  learn  the 
song.  It  is  a  song  of  organic  memory,  —  deep,  dim  memory  of 
other  quintillions  of  lives,  when  the  ghost  of  him  shrilled  at 
night  from  the  dewy  grasses  of  the  hills.  Then  that  song 
brought  him  love  —  and  death.  He  has  forgotten  all  about 
death  ;  but  he  remembers  the  love.  And  therefore  he  sings  now 
—  for  the  bride  that  will  never  come.  .  .  . 

Last  evening  —  the  twenty-ninth  of  the  eleventh  month  — 
an  odd  feeling  came  to  me  as  I  sat  at  my  desk :  a  sense  of  empti- 
ness in  the  room.  Then  I  became  aware  that  my  grass-lark 
was  silent,  contrary  to  his  wont.     I  went  to  the  silent  cage, 


3q6  .1.V/.U.I/.5 

and  louiul  him  lying  dead  beside  a  dried-up  luini)  of  egg-j)lant 
as  gray  and  hard  as  a  stone.  I'Aidently  he  had  not  been  fed 
for  three  or  four  days ;  but  only  the  night  before  his  death  he  had 
been  singing  wonderfully,  —  so  that  I  foolishly  imagined  him 
to  be  more  than  usually  contented.  My  student,  Aki,  who 
loves  insects,  used  to  feed  him ;  but  Aki  had  gone  into  the 
country  for  a  week's  holiday,  and  the  duty  of  caring  for  the 
grass-lark  had  devolved  upon  Hana,  the  housemaid.  She  is 
not  sympathetic,  Hana  the  housemaid.  She  says  that  she 
did  not  forget  the  mite,  —  but  there  was  no  more  egg-plant. 
And  she  had  never  thought  of  substituting  a  slice  of  onion 
or  of  cucumber !  I  spoke  words  of  reproof  to  Hana  the 
housemaid,  and  she  dutifully  expressed  contrition.  But  the 
fairy-music  has  stopped ;  and  the  stillness  reproaches ;  and  the 
room  is  cold,  in  spite  of  the  stove. 


THE   HEX   HAWKS  1 
John  Burroughs 

August  is  the  month  of  the  high-sailing  hawks.  The  hen- 
hawk  is  the  most  noticeable.  He  likes  the  haze  and  calm  of 
these  long,  warm  days.  He  is  a  bird  of  leisure,  and  seems  always 
at  his  ease.  How  beautiful  and  majestic  are  his  movements  ! 
So  self-poised  and  easy,  such  an  entire  absence  of  haste,  such  a 
magnificent  amplitude  of  circles  and  spirals,  such  a  haughty, 
imperial  grace,  and,  occasionally,  such  daring  aerial  evolutions  ! 

With  slow,  leisurely  movement,  rarely  vibrating  his  pinions, 
he  mounts  and  mounts  in  an  ascending  spiral  till  he  appears  a 
mere  speck  against  the  summer  sky ;  then,  if  the  mood  seizes 
him,  with  wings  half  closed  like  a  bent  bow,  he  will  cleave  the 
air  almost  perpendicularly,  as  if  intent  on  dashing  himself  to 
pieces  against  the  earth ;  but,  on  nearing  the  ground,  he  sud- 
denly mounts  again  on  broad,  expanded  wing,  as  if  rebounding 

'  From  "The  Return  of  the  Birds"  in  Wake  Robin.  Houghton  MiflBin  and  Com- 
pany. 


A   TROUT  397 

upon  the  air,  and  sails  leisurely  away.  It  is  the  sublimest  feat 
of  the  season.     One  holds  one's  breath  till  he  sees  him  rise  again. 

If  inclined  to  a  more  gradual  and  less  precipitous  descent,  he 
fixes  his  eye  on  some  distant  point  in  the  earth  beneath  him, 
and  thither  bends  his  course.  He  is  still  almost  meteoric  in  his 
speed  and  boldness.  You  see  his  path  down  the  heavens, 
straight  as  a  line ;  if  near,  you  hear  the  rush  of  his  wings ;  his 
shadow  hurtles  across  the  fields,  and  in  an  instant  you  see  him 
quietly  perched  upon  some  low  tree  or  decayed  stub  in  a  swamp 
or  meadow,  with  reminiscences  of  frogs  and  mice  stirring  in 
his  maw. 

When  the  south  wind  blows,  it  is  a  study  to  see  three  or  four 
of  these  air-kings  at  the  head  of  the  valley  far  up  toward  the 
mountain,  balancing  and  oscillating  upon  the  strong  current: 
now  quite  stationary,  except  a  slight  tremulous  motion  like  the 
poise  of  a  rope-dancer,  then  rising  and  falling  in  long  undulations, 
and  seeming  to  resign  themselves  passively  to  the  wind ;  or, 
again,  sailing  high  and  level  far  above  the  mountain's  peak, 
no  bluster  and  haste,  but,  as  stated,  occasionally  a  terrible 
earnestness  and  speed.  Fire  at  one  as  he  sails  overhead,  and, 
unless  wounded  badly,  he  will  not  change  his  course  or  gait. 

His  flight  is  a  perfect  picture  of  repose  in  motion.  It  strikes 
the  eye  as  more  surprising  than  the  flight  of  the  pigeon  and 
swallow  even,  in  that  the  effort  put  forth  is  so  uniform  and 
delicate  as  to  escape  observation,  giving  to  the  movement  an  air 
of  buoyancy  and  perpetuity,  the  effluence  of  power  rather  than 
the  conscious  application  of  it. 


A  TROUT  1 
Richard  Jefferies 

He  is  not  half  a  pound,  yet  in  the  sunshine  has  all  the  beauty 
of  a  larger  fish.  Spots  of  cochineal  and  gold  dust,  finely  mixed 
together,  dot  his  sides ;   they  are  not  red  nor  yellow  exactly,  as 

1  From  "By  the  Exe  "  in  The  Life  of  ike  Fields. 


398  ANIMAL^i 

if  gold  dust  were  mixed  with  some  bright  red.  A  line  is  drawn 
along  his  glistening  greenish  side,  and  across  this  there  are  faintly 
marked  lozenges  of  darker  color,  so  that  in  swimming  past  he 
would  appear  barred.  There  are  dark  spots  on  the  head  be- 
tween the  eyes,  the  tail  at  its  upper  and  lower  edges  is  pinkish ; 
his  gills  are  bright  scarlet.  Projiortioned  and  exquisitely  shaped, 
he  looks  like  a  living  arrow,  formed  to  shoot  through  the  water. 
The  delicate  little  creature  is  finished  in  every  detail,  painted 
to  the  utmost  minutiae,  and  carries  a  wonderful  store  of  force, 
enabling  him  easily  to  surmount  the  rapids. 


III.   F.   PERSONS 

I.    Real  Persons 
SIR  RICHARD   GRENVILLE  ^ 

Charles  Kingsley 

Among  all  the  heroic  faces  which  the  painters  of  that  age  have 
preserved,  none,  perhaps,  hardly  excepting  Shakespeare's  or 
Spenser's,  Alva's  or  Parma's,  is  more  heroic  than  that  of  Gren- 
ville,  as  it  stands  in  Prince's  Worthies  of  Devon;  of  a  Spanish 
type,  perhaps  (or  more  truly  speaking,  a  Cornish),  rather  than 
an  English,  with  just  enough  of  the  British  element  in  it  to  give 
delicacy  to  its  massiveness.  The  forehead  and  whole  brain  are 
of  extraordinary  loftiness,  and  perfectly  upright ;  the  nose  long, 
aquiline,  and  delicately  pointed;  the  mouth  fringed  with  a 
short  silky  beard,  small  and  ripe,  yet  firm  as  granite,  with  just 
pout  enough  of  the  lower  lip  to  give  hint  of  that  capacity  of 
noble  indignation  which  lay  hid  under  its  usual  courtly  calm  and 
sweetness ;  if  there  be  a  defect  in  the  face,  it  is  that  the  eyes 
are  somewhat  small,  and  close  together,  and  the  eyebrows, 
though  delicately  arched,  and  without  a  trace  of  peevishness, 
too  closely  pressed  down  upon  them ;  the  complexion  is  dark, 
the  figure  tall  and  graceful ;  altogether  the  likeness  of  a  wise  and 
gallant  gentleman,  lovely  to  all  good  men,  awful  to  all  bad  men  ; 
in  whose  presence  none  dare  say  or  do  a  mean  or  a  ribald  thing ; 
whom  brave  men  left,  feeling  themselves  nerved  to  do  their 
duty  better,  while  cowards  slipped  away,  as  bats  and  owls  before 
the  sun. 

1  J'rom  Westa'ard  Ho  ! 
399 


400  PERSONS 

FRANCIS    DRAKKi 

C'lIAKLKS    KiNGSLEY 

Who  is  that  short,  sturdy,  phiiiil}'  dressed  man,  \vhi)  stands 
with  legs  a  little  apart,  and  hands  behind  his  back,  looking  up 
with  keen  gray  eyes,  into  the  face  of  each  speaker?  His  cap 
is  in  his  hands,  so  you  can  see  the  bullet  head  of  crisp  brown  hair 
antl  the  wrinkled  forehead,  as  well  as  the  high  cheek  bones,  the 
short  square  face,  the  broad  temples,  the  thick  lips,  which  are 
yet  firm  as  granite.  A  coarse  plebeian  stamp  of  man  :  yet  the 
whole  figure  and  attitude  are  that  of  boundless  determination, 
self-possession,  energy ;  and  when  at  last  he  speaks  a  few  blunt 
words,  all  eyes  are  turned  respectfully  upon  him ;  —  for  his 
name  is  Francis  Drake. 

JOHN   STERLING  2 

Thomas  Carlyle 

Sterling  was  of  rather  slim  but  well-boned  wiry  figure,  per- 
haps an  inch  or  two  from  six  feet  in  height ;  of  blonde  com- 
plexion, without  color,  yet  not  pale  or  sickly ;  dark-blonde  hair, 
copious  enough,  which  he  usually  wore  short.  The  general 
aspect  of  him  indicated  freedom,  perfect  spontaneity,  with  a 
certain  careless  natural  grace.  In  his  apparel,  you  could  notice, 
he  affected  dim  colors,  easy  shapes ;  cleanly  always,  yet  even  in 
this  not  fastidious  or  conspicuous  :  he  sat  or  stood,  oftenest, 
in  loose  sloping  postures ;  walked  with  long  strides,  body  care- 
lessly bent,  head  flung  eagerly  forward,  right  hand  perhaps 
grasping  a  cane,  and  rather  by  the  middle  to  swing  it,  than  by 
the  end  to  use  it  otherwise.  An  attitude  of  frank,  cheerful 
imp'^tuosity,  of  hopeful  speed  and  alacrity;  which  indeed  his 
physiognomy,  on  all  sides  of  it,  offered  as  the  chief  expression. 
Alacrity,  velocity,  joyous  ardor,  dwelt  in  the  eyes  too,  which 

1  From  Westward  Ho  I 

-  From  The  Life  of  John  Slerlii:-. 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  ^^y^'^^^^^i(i^/^oi■■■  ■■ 

were  of  brownish  gray,  full  of  bright  kindly  lifer,*  rapid  and  frank 
rather  than  deep  or  strong.  A  smile,  half  of  kindly  impatience, 
half  of  real  mirth,  often  sat  on  his  face.  The  head  was  long; 
high  over  the  vertex ;  in  the  brow,  of  fair  breadth,  but  not  high 
for  such  a  man. 

In  the  voice,  which  was  of  good  tenor  sort,  rapid  and  strik- 
ingly distinct,  powerful  too,  and  except  in  some  of  the  higher 
notes  harmonious,  there  was  a  clear-ringing  metallic  tone,  — 
which  I  often  thought  was  wonderfully  physiognomic.  A 
certain  splendor,  beautiful,  but  not  the  deepest  or  the  softest, 
which  I  could  call  a  splendor  as  of  burnished  metal,  —  fiery 
valor  of  heart,  swift  decisive  insight  and  utterance,  then  a  turn 
for  brilliant  elegance,  also  for  ostentation,  rashness,  etc.,  etc.,  — 
in  short  a  flash  as  of  clear-glancing  sharp-cutting  steel,  lay  in  the 
whole  nature  of  the  man,  in  his  heart  and  in  his  intellect,  mark- 
ing alike  the  excellence  and  the  limits  of  them  both.  His  laugh, 
which  on  light  occasions  was  ready  and  frequent,  had  in  it  no 
great  depth  of  gaiety,  or  sense  for  the  ludicrous  in  men  or  things ; 
you  might  call  it  rather  a  good  smile  become  vocal  than  a  deep 
real  laugh :  with  his  whole  man  I  never  saw  him  laugh.  A 
clear  sense  of  the  humorous  he  had,  as  of  most  other  things ;  but 
in  himself  little  or  no  true  humor ;  —  nor  did  he  attem^pt  that 
side  of  things.  To  call  him  deficient  in  sympathy  would  seem 
strange,  him  whose  radiances  and  resonances  went  thrilling  over 
all  the  world,  and  kept  him  in  brotherly  contact  with  all :  but 
I  may  say  his  sympathies  dwelt  rather  with  the  high  and  sub- 
lime than  with  the  low  or  ludicrous ;  and  were,  in  any  field, 
rather  light,  wide,  and  lively,  than  deep,  abiding,  or  great. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY  ^ 

T.  J.  Hogg 

I  HAD  leisure  to  examine,  and  I  may  add,  to  admire  the  ap- 
pearance of  my  very  extraordinary  guest.  It  was  the  sum  of 
many  contradictions.     His  figure  was  slight  and  fragile,  and 

'  From  Hogg's  Life  of  Shelley. 


402  PERSONS 

yet  liis  bones  aiul  joints  were  larf^c  and  strong.  He  was  tall, 
but  he  stooped  so  much,  that  he  seemed  of  a  low  stature.  His 
clothes  were  expensive,  and  made  according  to  the  most  ap- 
proved mode  of  the  day ;  but  they  were  tumbled,  rumpled, 
unbrusheil.  His  gestures  were  abrupt,  and  sometimes  violent, 
occasionally  even  awkward,  yet  more  frequently  gentle  and 
graceful.  His  complexion  was  delicate,  and  almost  feminine, 
of  the  purest  red  and  white ;  yet  he  was  tanned  and  freckled  by 
exposure  to  the  sun,  having  passed  the  autumn,  as  he  said,  in 
shooting.  His  features,  his  whole  face  and  particularly  his  head, 
were,  in  fact,  unusually  small ;  yet  the  last  appeared  of  a  remark- 
able bulk,  for  his  hair  was  long  and  bushy,  and  in  fits  of  ab- 
straction and  in  the  agonies  (if  I  may  u'^e  the  word)  of  anxious 
thought,  he  often  rubbed  it  fiercely  with  his  hands,  or  passed 
his  fingers  quickly  through  his  locks  unconsciously,  so  that  it 
was  singularly  wild  and  rough.  .  .  .  His  features  were  not 
symmetrical  (the  mouth,  perhaps,  excepted),  yet  was  the  effect 
of  the  whole  extremely  powerful.  They  breathed  an  anima- 
tion, a  fire,  an  enthusiasm,  a  vivid  and  preternatural  intelligence, 
that  I  never  met  with  in  any  other  countenance.  Nor  was  the 
moral  expression  less  beautiful  than  the  intellectual ;  for  there 
was  a  softness,  a  delicacy,  a  gentleness,  and  especially  (though 
this  will  surprise  many)  that  air  of  profound  religious  veneration, 
that  characterizes  the  best  works,  and  chiefly  the  frescoes  (and 
into  these  they  infused  their  whole  souls)  of  the  great  masters 
of  Florence  and  Rome.  I  recognized  the  very  peculiar  expres- 
sion in  these  wonderful  productions  long  afterwards  and  with  a 
satisfaction  mingled  with  much  sorrow,  for  it  was  after  the 
decease  of  him  in  whose  countenance  I  had  first  observed  it. 

FATHER  PROUT^ 

William  Bates 

If  you  had  chanced,  somewhere  among  the  "sixties,"  to  drop 
fnto  the  well-known  reading-room  of  Galignani  at  Paris,  you 

'  From  the  Maclise  Portrait  Gallery. 


EDWARD   THE  FIRST  403 

might  have  observed  a  short  and  spare,  but  thick-set  figure  of  an 
elderly  man,  buried  in  a  newspaper,  or  exchanging  a  few  snappish 
incisive  words  with  some  journalistic  friend  or  chance  acciuaint- 
ance  of  the  place.  By-and-by,  he  would  start  up  suddenly, 
push  away  his  paper  with  a  jerk,  waste  no  valediction  on  his 
interlocutor,  and  start  forth  briskly  into  the  open  air.  You 
watched  him  as  he  disappeared,  and  set  him  down  as  an  oddity. 
His  hat,  unconscious  of  brush,  was  set  well  back  on  his  occiput, 
displaying  a  broad  intellectual  forehead;  his  nose  was  in  the 
air;  his  keen  blue-gray  eyes  peered  out  over  the  rim  of  his 
spectacles;  his  "roguish  Hibernian  mouth"  was  mobile  with 
the  mocking  humor  within ;  his  hands  were  thrust  into  his 
pockets,  or  otherwise,  his  right  arm  was  clasped  behind  him  in 
his  left  hand ;  his  coat,  of  scholarly  black,  was  loose,  threadbare, 
and  greasy ;  his  shirt  was  buttonless,  and  not  too  white ;  his 
face  was  smooth-shaven ;  he  stooped  in  figure  and  shambled 
in  gait ;  and  he  turned  his  head  from  side  to  side  with  the  quick 
movement  of  some  "strange  old  bird."  If  you  had  asked  an 
habitual  frequenter  of  the  room  who  this  queer  personage 
might  be,  —  with  the  air  of  a  scholar,  the  cut  of  a  cleric,  and  the 
shabby  slovenry  of  a  mendicant,  —  you  might  have  been  in- 
formed that  it  was  no  other  than  the  Rev.  Francis  Mahony, 
French  correspondent,  and  part  proprietor  of  the  Globe  news- 
paper, and  known  wherever  English  letters  had  found  their  way 
as  Father  Prout,  "Incumbent  of  Watergrasshill,  in  the  county 
of  Cork." 

EDWARD   THE   FIRST  ^ 

John  Richard  Green 

In  his  own  day  and  among  his  own  subjects  Edward  the 
First  was  the  object  of  an  almost  boundless  admiration.  He 
was  in  the  truest  sense  a  national  King.  At  the  moment  when 
the  last  trace  of  foreign  conquest  passed  away,  when  the  de- 
scendants of  those  who  won  and  those  who  lost  at  Senlac  blended 

1  From  Uistory  of  the  English  People. 


404  pi:rso\s 

forevtr  into  an  Mnp;lish  ix-oplc,  Knn;kin(l  saw  in  hrr  ruler  no 
stranger,  hut  an  Enj^lishman.  The  national  tradition  returned 
in  more  than  the  golden  hair  or  the  li^ngiish  name  which  linked 
him  to  our  earlier  Kings.  Edward's  very  temper  was  English 
to  the  core.  In  good  as  in  evil  he  stands  out  as  the  typical 
representative  of  the  race  he  ruled,  like  them  wilful  and  im- 
perious, tenacious  of  his  rights,  indomitable  in  his  pride,  dogged, 
stubborn,  slow  of  apprehension,  narrow  in  sympathy,  but  like 
them,  too,  just  in  the  main,  unselfish,  laborious,  conscientious, 
haughtily  observant  of  truth  and  self-respect,  temperate,  rever- 
ent of  duty,  religious.  It  is  this  oneness  with  the  character  of 
his  [)eople  which  parts  the  temper  of  Edward  from  what  had 
till  now  been  the  temper  of  his  house.  He  inherited  indeed 
from  the  Angevins  their  fierce  and  passionate  wrath  ;  his  punish- 
ments, when  he  punished  in  anger,  were  without  pity;  and  a 
priest  who  ventured  at  a  moment  of  storm  into  his  presence 
with  a  remonstrance  drop{3ed  dead  from  sheer  fright  at  his  feet. 
But  his  nature  had  nothing  of  the  hard  selfishness,  the  vindic- 
tive obstinacy  which  had  so  long  characterized  the  house  of 
Anjou.  His  wrath  passed  as  quickly  as  it  gathered ;  and  for 
the  most  part  his  conduct  was  that  of  an  impulsive,  generous 
man,  trustful,  averse  from  cruelty,  prone  to  forgive.  "No 
man  ever  asked  mercy  of  me,"  he  said  in  his  old  age,  "and  was 
refused."  The  rough  soldierly  nobleness  of  his  nature  broke  out 
in  incidents  like  that  at  Falkirk  where  he  lay  on  the  bare  ground 
among  his  men,  or  in  his  refusal  during  a  Welsh  campaign  to 
drink  of  the  one  cask  of  wine  which  had  been  saved  from  ma- 
rauders. "It  is  I  who  have  brought  you  into  this  strait,"  he 
said  to  his  thirsty  fellow-soldiers,  "and  I  will  have  no  advantage 
of  you  in  meat  or  drink."  Beneath  the  stern  imperiousness  of 
his  outer  bearing  lay  in  fact  a  strange  tenderness  and  sensitive- 
ness to  affection.  Every  subject  throughout  his  realm  was 
drawn  closer  to  the  King  who  w'ept  bitterly  at  the  news  of  his 
father's  death  though  it  gave  him  a  crown,  whose  fiercest  burst 
of  vengeance  was  called  out  by  an  insult  to  his  mother,  whose 
crosses  rose  as  memorials  of  his  love  and  sorrow  at  every  spot 
where  his  wife's  bier  rested.     "I  loved  her  tenderly  in  her  life- 


AN  ACCOUNTANT  405 

time,"  wrote  Edward  to  Eleanor's  friend,  the  Abbot  of  Clugny ; 
"I  do  not  cease  to  love  her  now  she  is  dead."  And  as  it  was 
with  mother  and  wife,  so  it  was  with  his  people  at  large.  All 
the  self-concentrated  isolation  of  the  foreign  Kings  disappeared 
in  Edward.  He  was  the  fir«t  English  ruler  since  the  Conquest 
who  loved  his  people  with  a  personal  love  and  craved  for  their 
love  back  again.  To  his  trust  in  them  we  owe  our  Parliament, 
to  his  care  for  them  the  great  statutes  which  stand  in  the  fore- 
front of  our  laws.  Even  in  his  struggles  with  her,  England 
understood  a  temper  which  was  so  perfectly  her  own,  and  the 
quarrels  between  King  and  people  during  his  reign  are  quarrels 
where,  doggedly  as  they  fought,  neither  disputant  doubted  for 
a  moment  the  worth  or  affection  of  the  other.  Few  scenes  in 
our  history  are  more  touching  than  a  scene  during  the  long 
contest  over  the  Charter,  when  Edward  stood  face  to  face  with 
his  people  in  Westminster  Hall  and  with  a  sudden  burst  of  tears 
owned  himself  frankly  in  the  wrong. 


2.    Imaginary  Persons 

AN  ACCOUNTANT! 

Charles  Lamb 

JoiiN  TiPP  neither  pretended  to  high  blood,  nor  in  good 
truth  cared  one  fig  about  the  matter.  He  "thought  an  account- 
ant the  greatest  character  in  the  world,  and  himself  the  greatest 
accountant  in  it."  Yet  John  was  not  without  his  hobby.  The 
fiddle  relieved  his  vacant  hours.  He  sang,  certainly,  with  other 
notes  than  to  the  Orphean  lyre.  He  did,  indeed,  scream  and 
scrape  most  abominably.  His  fine  suite  of  official  rooms  in 
Threadneedle  Street,  which,  without  anything  very  substantial 
appended  to  them,  were  enough  to  enlarge  a  man's  notion  of 
himself  that  lived  in  them  (I  know  not  who  is  the  occupier  of 
them  now),  resounded  fortnightly  to  the  notes  of  a  concert  of 

'  From  "The  South-Sea  House"  in  Essays  of  Elia, 


4o6  PERSONS 

"swoct  breasts,"  as  our  ancestors  would  have  called  them,  culled 
from  club-rooms,  and  orchestras  —  chorus  singers  —  first  and 
second  violoncellos  —  double  basses  —  and  clarionets  —  who 
ate  his  cold  mutton  and  drank,  his  punch  and  praised  his  ear. 
He  sat  like  Lord  Midas  among  them.  But  at  the  desk  Tipp 
was  quite  another  sort  of  figure.  Thence  all  ideas,  that  were 
purely  ornamental,  were  banished.  You  could  not  speak  of 
anything  romantic  w'ithout  rebuke.  Politics  were  excluded. 
A  newspaper  was  thought  too  refined  and  abstracted.  The 
whole  duty  of  man  consisted  in  writing  oti  dividend  warrants. 
The  striking  of  the  annual  balance  in  the  company's  books 
(which,  perhaps,  differed  from  the  balance  of  last  year  in  the 
sum  of  25/.  15.  6d.)  occupied  his  days  and  nights  for  a  month 
previous.  Not  that  Tipp  was  blind  to  the  deadness  of  things 
(as  they  called  them  in  the  city)  in  his  beloved  house,  or  did  not 
sigh  for  a  return  of  the  old  stirring  days  when  South-Sea  hopes 
were  young  (he  was  indeed  equal  to  the  wielding  of  any  the 
most  intricate  accounts  of  the  most  flourishing  company  in 
these  or  those  days) :  but  to  a  genuine  accountant  the  difference 
of  proceeds  is  as  nothing.  The  fractional  farthing  is  as  dear 
to  his  heart  as  the  thousands  which  stand  before  it.  He  is  the 
true  actor,  who,  whether  his  part  be  a  prince  or  a  peasant,  must  act 
it  with  like  intensity.  With  Tipp  form  was  everything.  His 
Ufe  was  formal.  His  actions  seemed  ruled  with  a  ruler.  His  pen 
was  not  less  erring  than  his  heart.  He  made  the  best  executor 
in  the  world :  he  was  plagued  w'ith  incessant  exejcutorships 
accordingly,  which  excited  his  spleen  and  soothed  his  vanity  in 
equal  ratios.  He  would  swear  (for  Tipp  swore)  at  the  little 
orphans,  whose  rights  he  would  guard  with  a  tenacity  like  the 
grasp  of  the  dying  hand  that  commended  their  interests  to  his 
protection.  With  all  this  there  was  about  him  a  sort  oi  timidity 
(his  few  enemies  used  to  give  it  a  worse  name)  —  a  something 
which,  in  reverence  to  the  dead,  we  will  place,  if  you  please,  a 
little  on  this  side  of  the  heroic.  Nature  certainly  had  been 
pleased  to  endow  John  Tipp  with  a  sufficient  measure  of  the 
principle  of  self-preservation.  There  is  a  cowardice  which  we 
do  not  despise,  because  it  has  nothing  base  or  treacherous  in 


A   PORTRAIT  407 

its  elements;  it  betrays  itself,  not  you:  it  is  mere  tempera- 
ment; the  absence  of  the  romantic  and  the  enterprising;  it 
sees  a  lion  in  the  way,  and  will  not,  with  Fortinbras,  "greatly 
find  quarrel  in  a  straw,"  when  some  supposed  honor  is  at  stake. 
Tipp  never  mounted  the  bor  of  a  stage-coach  in  his  life ;  or 
leaned  against  the  rails  of  a  balcony ;  or  walked  upon  the  ridge 
of  a  parapet ;  or  looked  down  a  precipice ;  or  let  off  a  gun  ;  or 
went  upon  a  water-party ;  or  would  willingly  let  you  go  if  he 
could  have  helped  it :  neither  was  it  recorded  of  him,  that  for 
lucre,  or  for  intimidation,  he  ever  forsook  friend  or  principle. 


A  PORTRAIT! 

John  Galsworthy 

It  is  at  the  age  of  eighty  that  I  picture  him,  without  the 
vestige  of  a  stoop,  rather  above  middle  height,  of  very  well- 
proportioned  figure,  whose  flatness  of  back  and  easy  movements 
were  the  admiration  of  all  who  saw  them.  His  iron-gray  eyes 
had  lost  none  of  their  color,  they  were  set-in  deep,  so  that  their 
upper  lids  were  invisible,  and  had  a  peculiar  questioning  direct- 
ness, apt  to  change  suddenly  into  twinkles.  His  head  was  of 
fine  shape  —  one  did  not  suspect  that  it  required  a  specially 
made  hat,  being  a  size  larger  than  almost  any  other  head;  it 
was  framed  in  very  silky  silvery  hair,  brushed  in  an  arch  across 
his  forehead,  and  falling  in  becoming  curves  over  the  tips  of  his 
ears ;  and  he  wore  always  a  full  white  beard  and  moustaches, 
which  concealed  a  jaw  and  chin  of  great  determination  cleft 
by  a  dimple.  His  nose  had  been  broken  in  his  early  boyhood ; 
it  was  the  nose  of  a  thinker,  broad  and  of  noticeable  shape. 
The  color  of  his  cheeks  was  a  fine  dry  brown ;  his  brow  very 
capacious,  both  wide  and  high,  and  endowed  with  a  singular 
serenity.  But  it  was  the  balance  and  poise  of  his  head  which 
commanded  so  much  attention.  In  a  theatre,  church,  concert- 
hall,  there  was  never  any  head  so  fine  as  his,  for  the  silvery  hair 

1  From  A  Motley.     Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


4o8  PERSONS 

and    beard    lent    to    its    massiveness    a    curious    grace    and 
delicacy. 

The  owner  of  that  head  could  not  but  be  endowed  with  force, 
sagacity,  humor,  and  the  sense  of  justice.  It  expressed,  in- 
deed, his  essential  quality  —  equanimity  ;  for  there  were  two 
men  in  him  —  he  of  the  chin  and  jaw,  a  man  of  action  and  ten- 
acity, and  he  of  the  nose  and  brow,  the  man  of  si)eculalion  and 
impersonality ;  yet  these  two  were  so  curiously  balanced  and 
blended  that  there  was  no  harsh  ungraceful  conflict.  And  what 
made  this  equanimity  so  memorable  was  the  fact  that  both 
his  power  of  action  and  his  power  of  speculation  were  of  high 
quality.  He  was  not  a  commonplace  person  content  with  a 
little  of  both.  He  wanted  and  had  wanted  throughout  life,  if 
one  may  judge  by  records,  a  good  deal  of  both,  ever  demanding 
with  one  half  of  him  strong  and  continuous  action,  and  with 
the  other  half,  high  and  clean  thought  and  behavior.  The  desire 
for  the  best  both  in  material  and  spiritual  things  remained  with 
him  through  life.  He  felt  things  deeply ;  and  but  for  his  strange 
balance,  and  a  yearning  for  inward  peace  which  never  seems  to 
have  deserted  him,  his  ship  might  well  have  gone  down  in 
tragedy. 

CHL\RLES   CHEER YBLEi 

Charles  Dickens 

Hf,  was  a  sturdy  old  fellow  in  a  broad-skirted,  blue  coat, 
made  pretty  large,  to  fit  easily,  and  with  no  particular  waist; 
his  bulky  legs  clothed  in  drab  breeches  and  high  gaiters,  and 
his  head  protected  by  a  low-crowned  broad-brimmed  white 
hat,  such  as  a  wealthy  grazier  might  wear.  He  wore  his  coat 
buttonless ;  and  his  dimpled  double  chin  rested  in  the  folds  of  a 
white  neckerchief  —  not  one  of  your  stifl-starched,  apoplectic 
cravats,  but  a  good,  easy,  old-fashioned  white  neck-cloth  that 
a  man  might  go  to  bed  in  and  be  none  the  worse  for.  But  what 
principally  attracted    the  attention  of    Nicholas  was  the  old 

'  From  Nicholas  Nicklehy. 


HAROLD  SKIM  POLE  409 

gentleman's  eye,  —  never  was  such  a  clear,  twinkling,  honest, 
merry,  happy  eye  as  that.  And  there  he  stood,  looking  a  little 
upward,  with  one  hand  thrust  into  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and 
the  other  playing  with  the  old-fashioned  gold  watch  chain; 
his  head  thrown  a  little  on  one  side,  and  his  hat  a  little  more 
on  one  side  than  his  head  (but  that  was  evidently  accident,  not 
his  ordinary  way  of  wearing  it),  with  such  a  pleasant  smile  play- 
ing about  his  mouth,  and  such  a  comical  expression  of  mingled 
slyness,  simplicity,  kind-heartedness,  and  good  humor  lighting 
up  his  jolly  old  face  that  Nicholas  would  have  been  content 
to  have  stood  there,  and  looked  at  him  until  evening,  and  to 
have  forgotten,  meanwhile,  that  there  was  such  a  thing  as  a 
soured  mind  or  a  crabbed  countenance  to  be  met  with  in  the 
whole  wide  world. 


HAROLD   SKIMPOLEi 

Charles  Dickens 

He  was  a  little  bright  creature,  with  a  rather  large  head ; 
but  a  deUcate  face,  and  a  sweet  voice,  and  there  was  a  perfect 
charm  in  him.  All  he  said  was  so  free  from  effort  and  spon- 
taneous, and  was  said  with  such  a  captivating  gayety,  that  it 
was  fascinating  to  hear  him  talk.  Being  of  a  more  slender 
figure  than  Mr.  Jarndyce,  and  having  a  richer  complexion,  with 
browner  hair,  he  looked  younger.  Indeed,  he  had  more  the 
appearance,  in  all  respects,  of  a  damaged  young  man,  than  a 
well-preserved  elderly  one.  There  was  an  easy  negligence  in 
his  manner,  and  even  in  his  dress  (his  hair  carelessly  disposed, 
and  his  neckerchief  loose  and  flowing,  as  I  have  seen  artists 
paint  their  own  portraits),  which  I  could  not  separate  from  the 
idea  of  a  romantic  youth  who  had  undergone  some  unique 
process  of  depreciation.  It  struck  me  as  being  not  at  all  like 
the  manner  or  appearance  of  a  man  who  had  advanced  in  life 
by  the  usual  road  of  years,  cares,  and  experiences. 

^  From  Bleak  Uouse. 


4IO  PERSONS 

MR.    GEORGE' 

Charles  Dickens 

He  is  a  swarthy  brown  man  of  fifty ;  well-made  and  good- 
looking  ;  with  crisp  dark  hair,  bright  eyes,  and  a  broad  chest. 
His  sinewy  and  powerful  hands,  as  sunburnt  as  his  face,  have 
evidently  been  used  to  a  pretty  rough  life.  What  is  curious 
about  him  is,  that  he  sits  forward  on  his  chair  as  if  he  were, 
from  long  habit,  allowing  space  for  some  dress  or  accoutrements 
that  he  has  altogether  laid  aside.  His  step  too  is  measured  and 
heavy,  and  would  go  well  with  a  weighty  clash  and  jingle  of 
spurs.  He  is  close-shaved  now,  but  his  mouth  is  set  as  if  his 
upper  lip  had  been  for  years  familiar  with  a  great  moustache ; 
and  his  manner  of  occasionally  laying  the  open  palm  of  his 
broad  brown  hand  upon  it,  is  to  the  same  effect.  Altogether 
one  might  guess  Mr.  George  to  have  been  a  trooper  once  upon 
a  time. 

AUNT  CLARA  2 

Arnold  Bennett 

Aunt  Clara  was  a  handsome  woman.  She  had  been  called 
—  but  not  by  men  whose  manners  and  code  she  would  have 
approved  —  "a  damned  fine  Avoman."  Her  age  was  about 
forty-two,  which  at  that  period,  in  a  woman's  habit  of  mind,  was 
the  equivalent  of  about  fifty  to-day.  Her  latest  photograph 
was  considered  to  be  very  successful.  It  showed  her  standing 
behind  a  velvet  chair  and  leaning  her  large  but  still  shapely 
bust  slightly  over  the  chair.  Her  forearms,  ruffied  and 
braceleted,  lay  along  the  fringed  back  of  the  chair,  and  from 
one  negligent  hand  depended  a  rose.  A  heavy  curtain  came 
downwards  out  of  nothing  into  the  picture,  and  the  end  of  it 

*  From  Bleak  House. 

'  From  Clayhanger.  E.  P.  Button  and  Company.  Reprinted  by  permission  of 
the  author. 


AUNT  CLARA  41 1 

lay  coiled  and  draped  on  the  seat  of  the  chair.  The  great  dress 
was  of  slate-colored  silk,  with  sleeves  tight  to  the  elbow  and 
thence,  from  a  ribbon  bow,  broadening  to  a  wide,  triangular 
climax  that  revealed  quantities  of  lace  at  the  wrists.  The 
pointed  cords  of  the  sleeves  were  picked  out  with  squares  of 
velvet.  A  short  and  highly  ornamental  fringed  and  looped 
flounce  waved  grandly  out  behind  from  the  waist  to  the  level 
of  the  knees ;  and  the  stomacher  recalled  the  ornamentation 
of  the  flounce;  and  both  the  stomacher  and  the  flounce  gave 
contrasting  value  to  the  severe  plainness  of  the  skirt,  designed 
to  emphasize  the  quality  of  the  silk.  Round  the  neck  was  a  lace 
collarette  to  match  the  furniture  of  the  wrists,  and  the  broad 
ends  of  the  collarette  were  crossed  on  the  bosom  and  held  by  a 
large  jet  brooch.  Above  that  you  saw  a  fine  regular  face,  with 
a  firm  hard  mouth  and  a  very  straight  nose  and  dark  eyebrows ; 
small  ears  weighted  with  heavy  jet  ear-rings. 

The  photograph  could  not  render  the  clear  perfection  of 
Aunt  Clara's  rosy  skin ;  she  had  the  color  and  the  flashing  eye 
of  a  girl.  But  it  did  justice  to  her  really  magnificent  black 
hair.  This  hair  was  all  her  own,  and  the  coiffure  seemed  as 
ample  as  a  judge's  wig.  From  the  low  forehead  the  hair  was 
parted  exactly  in  the  middle  for  about  two  inches ;  then  plaited 
bands  crossed  and  re-crossed  the  scalp  in  profusion,  forming 
behind  a  pattern  exceedingly  complicated,  and  down  either 
side  of  the  head,  now  behind  the  ear,  now  hiding  it,  now  resting 
on  the  shoulder,  now  hanging  clear  of  them,  fell  long  multi- 
tudinous glossy  curls.  These  curls  —  one  of  them  in  the  pho- 
tograph reached  as  far  as  the  stomacher  —  could  not  have  been 
surpassed  in  Bursley. 

She  was  a  woman  of  terrific  vitality.  Her  dead  sister  had 
been  nothing  in  comparison  with  her.  She  had  a  glorious  diges- 
tion, and  was  the  envy  of  her  brother-in-law  —  who  suffered 
much  from  biliousness  —  because  she  could  eat  with  perfect 
impunity  hot  buttered  toast  and  raw  celery  in  large  quantities. 
Further,  she  had  independent  means,  and  no  children  to  cause 
anxieties.  Yet  she  was  always,  as  the  phrase  went,  "bearing 
up,"  or,   as  another  phrase  went,   "leaning  hard."     Frances 


412  PERSONS 

Ridley  Haverpal  was  her  favorite  author,  and  I'raiiccs  Ridley 
Havergal's  little  book,  Lean  Hani,  was  kept  on  her  dressing- 
table.  (The  girls,  however,  averred  that  she  never  opened  it.) 
Aunt  Clara's  spiritual  life  must  be  imagined  as  a  continual, 
almost  ph}-sical  leaning  on  Christ.  Nevertheless  she  never 
complained,  and  she  was  seldom  depressed.  Her  desire,  and 
her  achievement,  was  to  be  bright,  to  take  everything  cheer- 
fully, to  look  obstinately  on  the  best  side  of  things;  and  to  instil 
this  religion  into  others. 


BUD   TILDEN,   MAIL  THIEF  ^ 
F.  HoPKiNSON  Sauth 

"That's  Bud  Tilden,  the  worst  of  the  bunch,"  said  the  jail 
warden  —  the  warden  with  the  sliced  ear  and  the  gorilla  hands. 
"Reminds  me  of  a  cat'mount  I  tried  to  tame  once,  only  he's 
twice  as  ugly." 

As  he  spoke,  he  pointed  to  a  prisoner  in  a  slouch  hat  clinging 
halfway  up  the  steel  bars  of  his  cage,  his  head  thrust  through 
as  far  as  his  cheeks  would  permit,  his  legs  spread  apart  like  the 
letter  A. 

"What's  he  here  for?"   I  asked. 

"Robbin'  the  U-nited  States  mail." 

"Where?" 

"Up  in  the  Kentucky  mountains,  back  o'  Bug  Holler.  Laid 
for  the  carrier  one  night,  held  him  up  with  a  gun,  pulled  him 
off  his  horse,  slashed  the  bottom  out  o'  the  mail  bag  with  his 
knife,  took  what  letters  he  wanted,  and  lit  off  in  the  woods,  cool 
as  a  chunk  o'  ice.  Oh  !  I  tell  ye,  he's  no  sardine  ;  you  kin  see 
that  without  my  tellin'  ye.     They'll  railroad  him,  sure." 

"When  was  he  arrested?" 

"Last  month  —  come  down  in  the  November  batch.  The 
dep'ties  had  a  circus  'fore  they  got  the  irons  on  him.  Caught 
him  in  a  clearin'  'bout  two  miles  back  o'  the  Holler.     He  was 

*  From  The  Under  Dog.     Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


BUD   TILDEN,  MAIL-THIEF  413 

up  in  a  corn-crib  with  a  Winchester  when  they  opened  on  him. 
Nobody  was  hurted,  but  they  would  a-been  if  they'd  showed 
the  top  o'  their  heads,  for  he's  strong  as  a  bull  and  kin  scalp  a 
squirrel  at  fifty  yards.  They  never  would  a-got  him  if  they 
hadn't  waited  till  dark  and  smoked  him  out,  so  one  on  'em  told 
me."  He  spoke  as  if  the  prisoner  had  been  a  rattlesnake  or  a 
sheep-stealing  wolf. 

The  mail-thief  evidently  overheard,  for  he  dropped,  with  a 
catlike  movement,  to  the  steel  floor  and  stood  looking  at  us 
through  the  bars  from  under  his  knit  eyebrows,  his  eyes  watch- 
ing our  every  movement. 

There  was  no  question  about  his  strength.  As  he  stood  in 
the  glare  of  the  overhead  light  I  could  trace  the  muscles  through 
his  rough  homespun  ■ —  for  he  was  a  mountaineer,  pure  and 
simple,  and  not  a  city-bred  thief  in  ready-made  clothes.  I  saw 
that  the  bulging  muscles  of  his  calves  had  driven  the  wrinkles 
of  his  butternut  trousers  close  up  under  the  knee-joint,  and 
that  those  of  his  thighs  had  rounded  out  the  coarse  cloth  from 
the  knee  to  the  hip.  The  spread  of  his  shoulders  had  performed 
a  like  service  for  his  shirt,  which  was  stretched  out  of  shape 
over  the  chest  and  back.  This  was  crossed  by  but  one  sus- 
pender, and  was  open  at  the  throat  —  a  tree-trunk  of  a  throat, 
with  all  the  cords  supporting  the  head  firmly  planted  in  the 
shoulders.  The  arms  were  long  and  had  the  curved  movement 
of  the  tentacles  of  a  devil-fish.  The  hands  were  big  and  bony, 
the  fingers  knotted  together  with  knuckles  of  iron.  He  wore  no 
collar  nor  any  coat ;  nor  did  he  ~bring  one  with  him,  so  the 
Warden  said. 

I  had  begun  my  inventory  at  his  feet  as  he  stood  gazing 
sullenly  at  us,  his  great  red  hands  tightly  clasped  around  the 
bars.  When  in  my  inspection  I  passed  from  his  open  collar  up 
his  tree-trunk  of  a  throat  to  his  chin,  and  then  to  his  face,  half- 
sliaded  by  a  big  slouch  hat,  which  rested  on  his  flaring  ears, 
and  at  last  looked  into  his  eyes,  a  slight  shock  of  surprise  went 
through  me.  I  had  been  examining  this  wild  beast  with  my 
judgment  already  warped  by  the  Warden ;  that's  why  I  began 
at  his  feet  and  worked  up.     If  I  had  started  in  on  on  unknown 


4M 


PERSONS 


subject,  prepared  to  rely  entirely  upon  my  own  judgment,  1 
would  have  begun  at  liis  eyes  and  worked  down.  My  shock 
of  suqirise  was  the  result  of  this  upwartl  process  of  inspection. 
An  awakening  of  this  kind,  the  awakening  to  an  injustice  done 
a  man  we  have  half  understood,  often  comes  after  years  of  such 
prejudice  and  misunderstanding.  With  me  this  awakening 
came  with  my  first  glimpse  of  his  eyes. 

There  was  nothing  of  the  Warden's  estimate  in  these  eyes  ; 
nothing  of  cruelty  nor  deceit  nor  greed.  Those  I  looked  into 
were  a  light  blue  —  a  washed-out  china  blue ;  eyes  that  shone 
out  of  a  good  heart  rather  than  out  of  a  bad  brain ;  not  very 
deep  eyes ;  not  ver^'  expressive  eyes;  dull,  perhaps,  but  kindly. 
The  features  were  none  the  less  attractive ;  the  mouth  was 
large,  well-shaped,  and  filled  with  big  white  teeth,  not  one 
missing ;  the  nose  straight,  with  wide,  well-turned  nostrils ; 
the  brow  low,  but  not  cunning  nor  revengeful ;  the  chin  strong 
and  well-modelled,  the  cheeks  full  and  of  good  color.  A  boy 
of  twenty  I  should  have  said  —  perhaps  twenty-five ;  abnor- 
mally strong,  a  big  animal  with  small  brain  power,  perfect  diges- 
tion, and  with  every-  function  of  his  body  working  like  a  clock. 
Photograph  his  head  and  come  upon  it  suddenly  in  a  collection 
of  others,  and  you  would  have  said:  "A  big  country'  bumpkin 
who  ploughs  all  day  and  milks  the  cows  at  night."  He  might 
be  the  blood-thirsty  ruffian,  the  human  wild  beast,  the  Warden 
had  described,  but  he  certainly  did  not  look  it.  I  wovdd  like 
to  have  had  just  such  a  man  on  any  one  of  my  gangs  with  old 
Captain  Joe  over  him.  He  w^ould  have  fought  the  sea  with  the 
best  of  them  and  made  the  work  of  the  surf-men  twice  as  easy 
if  he  had  taken  a  hand  at  the  watch  tackles. 

I  turned  to  the  Warden  again.  My  own  summing  up  differed 
materially  from  his  estimate,  but  I  did  not  thrust  mine  upon 
him.  He  had  had,  of  course,  a  much  wider  experience  among 
criminals  —  I,  in  fact,  had  had  none  at  all  —  and  could  not  be 
deceived  by  out\vard  appearances. 


A  GROUP  OF  MOURNERS  415 

A  GROUP  OF  MOURNERS  1 

Sir  Walter  Scott 

In  the  inside  of  the  cottage  was  a  scene  which  our  Wilkie 
alone  could  have  painted  with  the  exquisite  feeling  of  nature 
that  characterizes  his  enchanting  productions. 

The  body  was  laid  in  its  coffin  within  the  wooden  bedstead 
which  the  young  fisher  had  occupied  while  alive.  At  a  little 
distance  stood  the  father,  whose  rugged,  weather-beaten  coun- 
tenance, shaded  by  his  grizzled  hair,  had  faced  manya  stormy 
night  and  night-like  day.  He  was  apparently  revolving  his 
loss  in  his  mind  with  that  strong  feeling  of  painful  grief,  peculiar 
to  harsh  and  rough  characters,  which  almost  breaks  forth  into 
hatred  against  the  world,  and  all  that  remain  in  it  after  the 
beloved  object  is  withdrawn.  The  old  man  had  made  the  most 
desperate  efforts  to  save  his  son,  and  had  only  been  withheld 
by  main  force  from  renewing  them  at  a  moment  when,  with- 
out the  possibility  of  assisting  the  sufferer,  he  must  himself 
have  perished.  All  this  apparently  was  boiling  in  his  recol- 
lection. His  glance  was  directed  sidelong  towards  the  coffin, 
as  to  an  object  on  which  he  could  not  steadfastly  look,  and  yet 
from  which  he  could  not  withdraw  his  eyes.  His  answers  t( 
the  necessary  questions  which  were  occasionally  put  to  him 
were  brief,  harsh,  and  almost  fierce.  His  family  had  not  yet 
dared  to  address  to  him  a  Avord,  either  of  sympathy  or  consola- 
tion. His  masculine  wife,  virago  as  she  was,  and  absolute 
mistress  of  the  family,  as  she  justly  boasted  herself,  on  all 
ordinary  occasions,  was,  by  this  great  loss,  terrified  into  silence 
and  submission,  and  compelled  to  hide  from  her  husband's 
observation  the  bursts  of  her  female  sorrow.  As  he  had  re- 
jected food  ever  since  the  disaster  had  happened,  not  daring 
herself  to  approach  him,  she  had  that  morning,  with  affectionate 
artifice,  employed  the  youngest  and  favorite  child  to  present 
her  husband  with  some  nourishment.     His  first  action  was  to 

'  From  The  A  utiquary. 


410  PERSONS 

push  it  irom  him  with  an  an^ry  violence  that  frit^htcncd  the 
child;  his  next,  to  snatch  u]:>  the  boy  and  devour  him  with 
kisses.  "  Ve'll  be  a  bra'  fallow,  an  ye  be  si)ared,  Patie,  —  but 
ye '11  never  —  never  can  be  —  what  he  was  to  me  !  —  He  has 
sailed  the  coble  wi'  me  since  he  was  ten  years  auld,  and  there 
wasna  the  like  o'  liim  drew  a  net  betwixt  this  and  Buchan-ness. 
They  say  folks  maun  submit  —  I  will  tr>'." 

And  he  had  been  silent  from  that  moment  until  compelled 
to  answer  the  necessary  questions  we  have  already  noticed. 
Such  was  the  disconsolate  state  of  the  father. 

In  another  corner  of  the  cottage,  her  face  covered  by  her 
apron,  which  was  flung  over  it,  sat  the  mother,  the  nature  of 
her  grief  sufficiently  indicated  by  the  wringing  of  her  hands 
and  the  convulsive  agitation  of  the  bosom  which  the  covering 
could  not  conceal.  Two  of  her  gossips,  officiously  whispering 
into  her  ear  the  commonplace  topic  of  resignation  under  irre- 
mediable misfortune,  seemed  as  if  they  were  endeavoring  to 
stun  the  grief  which  they  could  not  console. 

The  sorrow  of  the  children  was  mingled  with  wonder  at  the 
preparations  they  beheld  around  them  and  at  the  unusual  dis- 
play of  wheaten  bread  and  wine,  which  the  poorest  peasant,  or 
fisher,  offers  to  the  guests  on  these  mournful  occasions ;  and  thus 
their  grief  for  their  brother's  death  was  almost  already  lost  in 
admiration  of  the  splendor  of  his  funeral. 

But  the  figure  of  the  old  grandmother  was  the  most  remark- 
able of  the  sorrowing  group.  Seated  on  her  accustomed  chair, 
with  her  usual  air  of  apathy  and  want  of  interest  in  what  sur- 
rounded her,  she  seemed  every  now  and  then  mechanically  to 
resume  the  motion  of  twirUng  her  spindle  —  then  to  look 
towards  her  bosom  for  the  distaff,  although  both  had  been  laid 
aside.  She  would  then  cast  her  eyes  about  as  if  surprised  at 
mLssing  the  usual  implements  of  her  industry,  and  appear  struck 
by  the  black  color  of  the  gown  in  which  they  had  dressed  her, 
and  embarrassed  by  the  number  of  persons  by  whom  she  was 
surrounded  —  then,  finally,  she  would  raise  her  head  with  a 
ghastly  look,  and  fix  her  eyes  upon  the  bed  which  contained  the 
coffin  of  her  grandson,  as  if  she  had  at  once,  and  for  the  first 


A   GROUP  OF  MOURNERS  417 

time,  acquired  sense  to  comprehend  her  inexpressible  calamity. 
These  alternate  feelings  of  embarrassment,  wonder,  and  grief, 
seemed  to  succeed  each  other  more  than  once  upon  her  torpid 
features.  But  she  spoke  not  a  word,  neither  had  she  shed  a 
tear ;  nor  did  one  of  the  family  understand,  either  from  look  or 
expression,  to  what  extent  she  comprehended  the  uncommon 
bustle  around  her.  Thus  she  sat  among  the  funeral  assembly 
like  a  connecting  link  between  the  surviving  mourners  and  the 
dead  corpse  which  they  bewailed  —  a  being  in  whom  the  light 
of  existence  was  already  obscured  by  the  encroaching  shadows 
of  death. 

WhenOldbuck  entered  this  house  of  mourning,  he  was  received 
by  a  general  and  silent  inclination  of  the  head,  and  according  to 
the  fashion  of  Scotland  on  such  occasions,  wine  and  spirits  and 
bread  were  offered  round  to  the  guests.  Elspeth,  as  these  re- 
freshments were  presented,  surprised  and  startled  the  whole 
company  by  motioning  to  the  person  who  bore  them  to  stop ; 
then,  taking  a  glass  in  her  hand,  she  rose  up,  and,  as  the  smile 
of  dotage  played  upon  her  shrivelled  features,  she  pronounced, 
with  a  hollow  and  tremulous  voice,  "Wishing  a'  your  healths, 
«;irs,  and  often  may  we  hae  such  merry  meetings  !" 

All  shrunk  from  the  ominous  pledge,  and  set  down  the  un- 
tasted  liquor  with  a  degree  of  shuddering  horror  which  will  not 
surprise  those  who  know  how  many  superstitions  are  still 
common  on  such  occasions  among  the  Scottish  vulgar.  But  as 
the  old  woman  tasted  the  liquor,  she  suddenly  exclaimed  with 
a  sort  of  shriek,  "What's  this?  —  this  is  wine  —  how  should 
there  be  wine  in  my  son's  house?  Ay,"  she  continued  with  a 
suppressed  groan,  "I  mind  the  sorrowful  cause  now,"  and, 
dropping  the  glass  from  her  hand,  she  stood  a  moment  gazing 
fixedly  on  the  bed  in  which  the  coffin  of  her  grandson  was  de- 
posited, and  then  sinking  gradually  into  her  seat,  she  covered 
her  eyes  and  forehead  with  her  withered  and  pallid  hand. 


2E 


m.    G.    MENTAL    STATE 
IN   THE   HURRICANE  ^ 

Joseph  Conrad 

Jukes  remained  indifferent  in  the  overpowering  force  of  the 
hurricane,  which  made  the  very  thought  of  action  utterly  vain. 
Besides,  being  very  young,  he  had  found  the  occupation  of  keep- 
ing his  heart  completely  steeled  against  the  worst  so  full  of  excite- 
ment that  he  had  come  to  feel  an  impatient  dislike  towards  any 
other  form  of  activity  whatever.  The  immediate  peril  had  an 
atrocious  side  —  the  violence,  the  darkness,  the  uproar  —  which 
made  the  business  of  enduring  it  all  surprisingly  engrossing. 
He  wasn't  in  the  least  scared ;  he  knew  that  very  well ;  and  the 
proof  of  it  was  that,  firmly  believing  he  would  never  see  an- 
other sunrise,  he  could  be  now  sitting  down,  in  a  manner  of 
speaking,  as  calm  as  possible  under  that  belief. 

These  are  the  moments  of  do-nothing  heroics  to  which  even 
good  men  surrender  at  times.  Many  officers  of  ships  can  no 
doubt  recall  a  case  in  their  experience  when  just  such  a  trance 
of  confounded  stoicism  would  come  all  at  once  over  a  whole 
ship's  company.  The  mere  recollection  of  such  a  passage  is 
enough  to  bring  back  all  the  original  dismay.  It  is  difficult  to 
allude  to  it  without  ffinging  swear-words  backwards  into  the 
past;  not  precisely  at  the  men  themselves,  which  would  be 
like  throwing  stones,  but  upon  the  unhonored  memory  at  large. 

Jukes,  however,  had  no  wide  experience  of  men  or  storms. 
He  conceived  himself  to  be  calm  —  inexorably  calm ;  calm  as 
the  very  statue  of  calmness  in  the  night  and  terror  of  a  storm. 
It  suited  him  to  be  left  alone  thus,  and  it  seemed  also  as  though 
really  nothing  more  could  be  required  of  him.  But  as  a  matter 
^  From  Typhoon.    Doubleday,  Page  and  Company.     Reprinted  by  permission. 

418 


IN   THE  HURRICANE  419 

of  fact  he  was  cowed ;  not  abjectly,  but  only  so  far  as  a  decent 
man  may,  without  becoming  loathsome  to  himself. 

It  was  rather  like  a  forced-on  numbness  of  spirit.  The  long, 
long  stress  of  a  gale  does  it ;  the  suspense  of  the  interminably 
culminating  catastrophe;  the  trial  of  sustained  violence  going 
on  endlessly,  as  though  time  itself  were  hurled  upon  one;  the 
formidable  hint  of  annihilation  in  the  sweep  and  roar  of  the 
wind.  And  there  is  a  bodily  fatigue  in  the  mere  holding  on  to 
existence  within  the  excessive  tumult ;  a  searching  and  insidious 
fatigue  that  penetrates  deep  into  a  man's  breast  to  cast  down 
and  sadden  his  heart,  which  is  incorrigible,  and  of  all  the  gifts 
of  earth  —  even  before  life  itself  —  aspires  to  peace. 

Jukes  was  benumbed  much  more  than  he  supposed.  He  stood 
very  wet,  very  cold,  stiff  in  every  limb,  and  in  a  momentary 
hallucination  of  swift  visions  (it  is  said  a  drowning  man  thus 
reviews  all  his  life)  he  was  run  up  against  by  memories  altogether 
unconnected  with  his  present  situation.  He  remembered  his 
father,  for  instance ;  a  worthy  but  fanciful  business  man,  who, 
at  an  unfortunate  crisis  in  his  affairs,  went  quietly  to  bed  and 
died  forthwith  in  a  state  of  resignation.  Jukes  did  not  recall 
these  circumstances,  of  course;  but,  remaining  otherwise  un- 
concerned, he  remembered  distinctly  the  poor  man's  face,  a  cer- 
tain game  of  nap  he  played  when  quite  a  boy  in  Table  Bay,  on 
board  a  ship  since  lost  with  all  hands,  the  thick  eyebrows  of  his 
first  skipper ;  and,  without  any  emotion,  as  he  might  years 
ago  have  walked  listlessly  into  her  room  and  seen  her  sitting 
there  with  a  book,  he  remembered  his  mother,  —  dead,  too, 
now,  —  the  resolute  woman  left  badly  off,  who  had  been  very 
firm  in  his  bringing  up. 

It  could  not  have  lasted  more  than  a  second,  perhaps  not  so 
much.  A  heavy  arm  had  fallen  about  his  shoulders ;  Captain 
Mac  Whirr's  voice  was  speaking  his  name  into  his  ear.  "Jukes  ! 
Jukes!" 


4iO  MENTAL  STATE 

ON   THE   WIND   AT  NIGHT' 

Stewart  Edward  Wotte 

The  winds  were  indeed  abroad  that  night.  They  rattled 
our  cabin,  they  shrieked  in  our  eaves,  they  pufifed  down  our 
chimney,  scattering  the  ashes  and  leaving  in  the  room  a  balloon 
of  smoke  as  though  a  shell  had  burst.  When  we  opened  the 
door  and  stepped  out,  after  good-nights  had  been  said,  it  caught 
at  our  hats  and  garments  as  though  it  had  been  lying  in  wait  for 
us. 

To  our  eyes,  fire-dazzled,  the  night  seemed  very  dark.  There 
would  be  a  moon  later,  but  at  present  even  the  stars  seemed 
only  so  many  pinpoints  of  dull  metal,  lustreless,  without  illu- 
mination. We  felt  our  way  to  camp,  conscious  of  the  softness 
of  grasses,  the  uncertainty  of  stones. 

At  camp  the  remains  of  the  fire  crouched  beneath  the  rating 
of  the  storm.  Its  embers  glowed  sullen  and  red,  alternately 
glaring  with  a  half-formed  resolution  to  rebel,  and  dying  to  a 
sulky  resignation.  Once  a  feeble  flame  sprang  up  for  an  in- 
stant, but  was  immediately  pounced  on  and  beaten  fiat  as 
though  by  a  \-igilant  antagonist. 

W^e,  stumbling,  gathered  again  our  tumbled  blankets.  Across 
the  brow  of  the  knoll  lay  a  huge  pine  trunk.  In  its  shelter  we 
respread  our  bedding,  and  there,  standing,  dressed  for  the 
night.  The  power  of  the  wind  tugged  at  our  loose  garments, 
hoping  for  spoil.  A  towel,  shaken  by  accident  from  the  in- 
terior of  a  sweater,  departed,  white  winged,  like  a  bird,  into 
the  outer  blackness.  We  found  it  next  day  caught  in  the 
bushes  several  hundred  yards  distant.  Our  voices  as  we 
shouted  were  snatched  from  our  lips  and  hurled  lavishly  into 
space.  The  very  breath  of  our  bodies  seemed  driven  back,  so 
that  as  we  faced  the  elements,  we  breathed  in  gasps,  with  diffi- 
culty. 

*  From  The  Mountains.  Doubleday,  Page  and  Company.  Reprinted  by  per- 
missioD. 


ON   THE   WIND  AT  NIGHT  421 

Then  we  dropped  down  into  our  blankets.  At  once  the  pros- 
trate tree-trunk  gave  us  its  protection.  We  lay  in  a  little  back- 
wash of  the  racing  winds,  still  as  a  night  in  June.  Over  us 
roared  the  battle.  We  felt  like  sharpshooters  in  the  trenches ; 
as  though,  were  we  to  raise  our  heads,  at  that  instant  we  should 
enter  a  zone  of  danger.  So  we  lay  quietly  on  our  backs  and 
stared  at  the  heavens. 

The  first  impression  thence  given  was  of  stars  sailing  serene 
and  unaffected,  remote  from  the  turbulence  of  what  until  this 
instant  had  seemed  to  fill  the  universe.  They  were  as  always, 
just  as  we  should  see  them  when  the  evening  was  warm  and 
the  tree-toads  chirped  clearly  audible  at  half  a  mile.  The  im- 
portance of  the  tempest  shrank.  Then  below  them  next  we 
noticed  the  mountains ;  they  too  were  serene  and  calm. 

Immediately  it  was  as  though  the  storm  were  an  hallucina- 
tion ;  something  not  objective ;  something  real,  but  within  the 
soul  of  him  who  looked  upon  it.  It  claimed  sudden  kinship 
with  those  blackest  days  when  nevertheless  the  sun,  the  mere 
external  unimportant  sun,  shines  with  superlative  brilliancy. 
Emotions  of  a  power  to  shake  the  foundations  of  life  seemed 
vaguely  to  stir  in  answer  to  these  their  hollow  symbols.  For 
after  all,  we  were  contented  at  heart  and  tranquil  in  mind,  and 
this  was  but  the  outer  gorgeous  show  of  an  intense  emotional 
experience  we  did  not  at  the  moment  prove.  Our  nerves  re- 
sponded to  it  automatically.  We  became  excited,  keyed  to  a 
high  tension,  and  so  lay  rigid  on  our  backs,  as  though  fighting 
out  the  battles  of  our  souls. 

It  was  all  so  unreal  and  yet  so  plain  to  our  senses  that  per- 
force automatically  Our  experience  had  to  conclude  it  psychical. 
We  were  in  air  absolutely  still.  Yet  above  us  the  trees  writhed 
and  twisted  and  turned  and  bent  and  struck  back,  e\idently  in 
the  power  of  a  mighty  force.  Across  the  calm  heavens  the 
murk  of  flying  atmosphere  —  I  have  always  maintained  that  if 
you  looked  closely  enough  you  could  see  the  wind  —  the  dim, 
hardly-made-out,  fine  debris  fleeing  high  in  the  air ;  —  these 
faintly  hinted  at  intense  movement  rushing  down  through 
space.     A  roar  of  sound  filled  the  hollow  of  the  sky.     Occasion- 


42  2  MENTAL  STATE 

ally  it  intermitted,  fallinji;  abruptly  in  volume  like  the  mys- 
terious rare  hushings  of  a  rapid  stream.  Then  the  familiar 
noises  of  a  summer  night  became  audible  for  the  briefest  instant, 
—  a  horse  sneezed,  an  owl  hooted,  the  wild  call  of  birds  came 
down  the  wind.  And  with  a  howl  the  legions  of  good  and  evil 
took  up  their  warring.  It  was  too  real,  and  yet  it  was  not 
reconcilable  ^\•ith  the  calm  of  our  resting-places. 

For  hours  we  lay  thus  in  all  the  intensity  of  an  inner  storm 
and  stress,  which  it  seemed  could  not  fail  to  develop  us,  to 
mould  us,  to  age  us,  to  leave  on  us  its  scars,  to  bequeath  us  its 
peace  or  remorse  or  despair,  as  would  some  great  mysterious 
dark  experience  direct  from  the  sources  of  life.  And  then 
abruptly  we  were  e.xhausted,  as  we  should  have  been  by  too 
great  emotion.  We  fell  asleep.  The  morning  dawned  still  and 
clear,  and  garnished  and  set  in  order  as  though  such  things  had 
never  been.  Only  our  white  towel  fluttered  like  a  flag  of  truce 
in  the  direction  the  mighty  elements  had  departed. 


IV.   NARRATIVE 

A.    ANECDOTE 
IRISH  PATRIOTS  1 

Henry  Labouchere 

While  I  was  attache  at  Washington  I  was  sent  by  the  minis- 
ter to  look  after  some  Irish  patriots  at  Boston.  I  took  up  my 
residence  at  a  small  hotel,  and  wrote  down  an  imaginary  name 
in  the  hotel  book  as  mine.  In  the  evening  I  went  to  a  gambling 
establishment,  where  I  lost  all  the  money  I  had  with  me  except 
half  a  dollar.  Then  I  went  to  bed,  satisfied  with  my  prowess. 
The  next  morning  the  bailiffs  seized  on  the  hotel  for  debt,  and 
all  the  guests  were  requested  to  pay  their  bills  and  to  take 
away  their  luggage.  I  could  not  pay  mine,  arid  so  I  could  not 
take  away  my  luggage.  All  that  I  could  do  was  to  write  to 
Washington  for  a  remittance,  and  to  wait  two  days  for  its 
arrival.  The  first  day  I  walked  about,  and  spent  my  half  dollar 
on  food.  It  was  summer,  so  I  slept  on  a  bench  on  the  common, 
and  in  the  morning  went  to  the  bay  to  wash  myself.  I  felt 
independent  of  all  the  cares  and  troubles  of  civilization.  But 
I  had  nothing  with  which  to  buy  myself  a  breakfast.  I  grew 
hungry  and,  towards  evening,  more  hungry  still,  so  much  so 
that  I  entered  a  restaurant  and  ordered  dinner  without  any 
clear  idea  how  I  was  to  pay  for  it,  except  by  leaving  my  coat 
in  pledge.  In  those  days  Boston  restaurants  were  mostly  in 
cellars,  and  there  was  a  bar  near  the  door  where  the  proprietor 
sat  to  receive  payment.  As  I  ate  my  dinner  I  observed  that 
all  the  waiters,  who  were  Irishmen,  were  continually  staring 

1  From  The  Life  of  Henry  Labouchere.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.  Reprinted  by 
permission. 

423 


4-M 


r  NCI  D  EXT 


at  me,  and  CN-idcntly  spcakin;^  of  me  to  each  other.  A  guilty 
conscience  made  me  think  tliat  this  was  because  I  had  an  im- 
pecunious look,  and  that  they  were  discussing  whether  my 
clothes  would  cover  my  bill.  At  last  one  of  them  approached 
me,  and  said :  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir ;  are  you  the  patriot 
Meagher?"  Now  this  patriot  was  a  gentleman  who  had  aided 
Smith  O'Brien  in  his  Irish  rising,  had  been  sent  to  Australia, 
and  had  escaped  thence  to  the  United  States.  It  was  my  busi- 
ness to  look  after  patriots,  so  I  put  my  finger  before  my  lips, 
and  said:  "Hush  I"  while  I  cast  up  my  eyes  to  the  ceiling  as 
though  I  saw  a  vision  of  Erin  beckoning  to  me.  It  was  felt  at 
once  that  I  was  Meagher.  The  choicest  viands  were  placed 
before  me,  and  most  excellent  wine.  WTien  I  had  done  justice 
to  all  the  good  things  I  approached  the  bar  and  asked  boldly 
for  my  bill.  The  proprietor,  also  an  Irishman,  said:  "From  a 
man  like  you,  who  has  suffered  in  the  good  cause,  I  can  take  no 
money ;  allow  a  brother  patriot  to  shake  you  by  the  hand." 
I  allowed  him.  I  further  allowed  all  the  waiters  to  shake  hands 
with  me,  and  stalked  forth  with  the  stern,  resolved,  but  some- 
what condescendingly  dismal  air  which  I  have  seen  assumed 
bv  patriots  in  exile.  Again  I  slept  on  the  Common,  again  I 
washed  in  the  bay.  Then  I  went  to  the  post-office,  found  a 
letter  for  me  from  Washington  with  some  money  in  it,  and 
breakfasted. 

IV.    B.    INCIDENT 

THE  TRAGEDY   OF  THE   MINE  ^ 

Joseph  Husband 

I  w.\s  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  loosening  the  heel  of 
one  of  my  rubber  boots  \\-ith  the  toe  of  the  other,  when  sud- 
denly, through  the  stillness  of  the  sleeping  town,  from  the  power- 
house half  a  mile  away,  came  a  low  and  rising  note,  the  great 
siren  whistle  in  the  power-house.     Almost  fascinated,  I  listened 

'  From  A  Year  in  a  Coal-mine.  Houghton,  Miffin  and  Company.  Reprinted  by 
permission. 


THE   TRAGEDY  OF    THE  MINE  425 

as  the  great  note  rose  higher  and  more  shrill  and  died  away 
again.  One  blast  meant  a  fire  in  the  town ;  two  blasts,  fire  in 
the  buildings  at  the  mine ;  and  three  blasts,  the  most  terrible 
of  all,  a  disaster  or  trouble  in  the  mine.  Once  more,  after  an 
interminable  pause,  the  sound  came  again ;  and  once  more  rose 
and  died  away.  I  did  not  move,  but  there  was  a  sudden  cold- 
ness that  came  over  me  as  once  more,  for  the  third  time,  the 
deep  note  broke  out  on  the  quiet  air.  Almost  instantaneously 
the  loud  jingle  of  my  telephone  brought  me  to  my  feet.  I  took 
down' the  receiver:  "The  mine's  blown  up,"  said  a  woman's 
voice. 

It  was  half  a  mile  between  my  room  and  the  gate  to  the 
mine-yards,  and  as  my  feet  beat  noisily  on  the  long,  straight 
road,  doors  opened,  yellow  against  the  blackness  of  the  night, 
and  voices  called  out  —  women's  voices  mostly.  The  gate-man 
knew  little.     "She's  let  go,"  was  all  that  he  could  say. 

There  were  two  men  at  the  fan-house,  the  fan  engineer  and 
his  assistant,. ..and  in  a  second  I  learned  from  them  that  there 
had  come  a  sudden  puff  up  the  air-shaft  that  had  spun  the  fan 
backward  a  dozen  revolutions  on  the  belt  before  it  picked  up 
again.  The  explosion  doors,  built  for  such  an  emergency  on 
the  new  dome  above  the  air-shaft,  had  banged  open  noisily  and  . 
shut  again  of  their  own  weight.     That  was  all. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  men  at  the  top  of  the  hoisting-shaft. 
The  hoisting  engineer  sat,  white  faced,  on  his  seat  by  the  shaft- 
mouth,  one  arm  laid  limply  on  the  window-sill,  his  hand  clenched 
on  the  lever.  "I  tried  to  telephone  'em,"  he  said,  "but  they 
didn't  answer.  The  cage  was  down.  She  came  out  with  a 
puff  like  you  blow  out  of  your  pipe ;  that's  all."  He  stopped  and 
awkwardly  wiped  his  face.  "Then  I  left  the  hoist  down  five 
minutes  and  brought  her  up,"  he  continued,  "but  there  was  no 
one  in  it.     Then  I  sent  it  down  again.     It's  down  there  now." 

"How  long  has  it  been  down  ? "   I  asked. 

"Ten  minutes,"  he  hazarded. 

I  gave  him  the  order  to  hoist ;  and  the  silence  was  suddenly 
broken  by  the  grind  of  the  drums  as  he  pulled  the  lever  back, 
and  the  cable  began  to  wind  slowly  upward.     A  minute  later 


426  INCIDENT 

the  black  toj)  of  the  hoist  pushed  iq)  from  the  hole,  and  the 
decks,  one  by  one,  appeared  —  all  empty. 

There  was  no  one  at  the  mine  except  the  hoisting  engineer 
and  some  of  the  night  force  who  were  on  duty  at  the  power- 
house and  in  the  engine-room.  In  the  long  months  of  trouble 
our  force  had  gradually  diminished,  and  of  those  who  had  re- 
mained and  who  were  equal  to  such  an  emergency,  part  were 
now  in  the  mine,  and  the  rest,  worn  out  and  exhausted  by  the 
long  day's  work,  were  far  away  in  the  town,  asleep ;  or  perhaps, 
if  the  whistle  had  aroused  them,  on  their  way  to  the  mine. 
Instant  action  was  necessary,  for  following  an  explosion  comes 
the  after-damp,  and  if  any  were  living,  this  poisonous  gas  would 
destroy  them. 

As  I  turned  from  the  shaft  mouth,  McPherson,  the  super- 
intendent, a  square-built,  freckled  Scotsman  about  fifty  years 
of  age,  came  running  toward  the  warehouse.  There  were  but 
two  hehnets  ready,  for  so  favorably  had  our  work  progressed 
that  we  had  neglected  to  keep  more  than  two  charged  with 
oxygen,  and  had  allowed  the  rest  to  be  taken  apart  for  repairs. 
Familiar  with  the  conditions  existing  in  the  mine,  we  realized 
that  the  explosion,  however  slight,  must  have  blown  down  many 
of  the  stoppings  which  we  had  erected,  and  allowed  the  pent-up 
gas  to  rush  back  into  the  portion  of  the  mine  which  we  had 
recovered,  and  in  which  the  night  shift  was  now  imprisoned. 
If  the  gas  had  been  ignited  by  open  fire,  immediate  action  was 
necessary,  for  our  own  safety  as  well  as  for  the  chance  of  rescu- 
ing the  men  in  the  mine ;  for  in  the  month  preceding  we  had 
seen  the  mine  ''repeat"  at  regular  intervals  with  two  explosions, 
and  if  the  fire  had  been  ignited  from  open  flame,  we  must  enter 
it,  effect  the  rescue  of  our  comrades,  and  escape  before  we  could 
be  caught  by  a  second  explosion.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
chances  were  equal  that  the  explosion  might  have  been  set  off 
by  a  defective  gauze  in  a  safety  lamp  or  some  other  cause,  and 
that  there  would  be  no  immediate  explosion  following  the  first 
one. 

In  the  hurry  of  adjusting  our  helmets,  no  one  noticed  that 
the  charge  of  oxygen  in  mine  was  short,  and  that  an  hour  and 


THE   TRAGEDY  OF   THE  MINE 


427 


forty  minutes  was  my  working  limit;  and  all  unconscious  of 
this,  I  tightened  the  valve,  and  with  the  oxygen  hissing  in  the 
check-valves,  we  left  the  bright  light  of  the  room,  and  felt  our 
way  down  the  steps  into  the  darkness  of  the  yard,  where  a  great 
arc-light  above  the  hoisting-shaft  made  objects  visible  in  its 
lavender  light.  A  crowd  had  already  gathered ;  a  dark,  silent 
crowd  that  stood  like  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep  around  the 
mouth  of  the  man-hoist.  With  a  man  on  either  side  of  us  to 
direct  us,  we  walked  to  the  hoist,  our  electric  hand-lanterns 
throwing  long  white  beams  of  light  before  us.  There  was  no 
sound ;  no  shrieking  of  women,  no  struggling  of  frenzied  mothers 
or  sisters  to  fight  their  way  into  the  mine ;  but  there  was  a  more 
awful  silence,  and. as  we  passed  a  pile  of  ties,  I  heard  a  whimper- 
ing noise,  like  a  puppy,  and  in  the  light  of  my  lamp  saw  the 
doubled  form  of  a  woman  who  crouched  alone  on  the  ground, 
a  shawl  drawn  over  her  head,  sobbing. 

We  stepped  on  the  hoist,  and  for  an  instant  there  came  the 
picture  of  a  solid  line  of  people  who  hung  on  the  edge  of  the 
light;  of  white  faces;  of  the  lavender  glare  of  the  arc-lamp, 
contrasting  with  the  oratUge  light  from  the  little  square  window 
in  the  house  of  the  hoisting  engineer.  "Are  you  ready?"  he 
called  to  us.  "Let  her  go,"  we  said ;  and  the  picture  was  gone 
as  the  hoist  sank  into  the  blackness  of  the  shaft.  We  said 
nothing  as  we  were  lowered,  for  we  knew  where  the  men  would 
be  if  we  could  reach  them,  and  there  was  nothing  else  to  talk 
about.  The  grind  of  the  shoes  on  the  hoist  as  they  scraped 
the  rails  made  a  sound  that  drowned  out  my  feeble  whistling 
of  the  Merry  Widow  waltz  inside  of  my  helmet. 

We  felt  the  motion  of  our  descent  slacken,  and  then  came  a 
sudden  roaring  splash  as  the  lower  deck  of  the  hoist  hit  the 
water  which  filled  the  sump.  Slowly  we  sank  down  until  the 
water  which  flooded  that  part  of  the  mine  rose,  cold  and  dead, 
to  our  knees,  and  the  hoist  came  to  a  stop.  Splashing  clumsily 
over  the  uneven  floor,  we  climbed  the  two  steps  which  led  to 
the  higher  level  of  B  entry,  and  for  a  minute  turned  the  white 
beams  of  our  lights  in  every  direction.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  seen,  and  no  trace  of  any  explosion  except  a  thin,  white  layer 


42S  IXCIDKXT 

of  dead  mist  or  smoke  wliich  hunf;  lifeless,  like  cigar-smoke  in  a 
quiet  room,  about  four  feet  from  the  ground ;  but  there  was  a 
silence  that  was  terrible,  for  in  it  we  listened  in  vain  for  the 
voices  of  men.  At  first  we  assured  ourselves  that  there  was  no 
one  around  the  bottom  of  the  shaft,  for  we  had  expected  that 
some  one,  injured  by  tlie  explosion,  might  have  been  able  to 
crawl  toward  the  man-hoist;  but  there  was  no  trace  of  any 
human  being. 

\\'alking  slowly  and  peering  before  us  through  the  bull's-eyes 
of  our  helmets,  to  right  and  left,  w^e  advanced  down  the  entry, 
our  lights  cutting  the  blackness  like  the  white  fingers  of  twin 
searchlights.  Suddenly,  far  oflf  in  the  darkness,  there  came  a 
sound.  It  was  laughter.  We  stopped  and  listened.  High, 
shrill,  and  mad,  the  notes  caught  our  ears.  Again  we  advanced, 
and  the  laughter  broke  into  a  high,  shrill  song.  To  right  and 
left  we  swung  the  bars  of  our  searchlights,  feeling  for  the  voice. 
Suddenly  the  white  light  brought  out  of  the  darkness  a  tangled 
mass  of  blackened  timbers  which  seemed  to  fill  the  entry,  and 
into  the  light  from  the  pile  of  wreckage  staggered  the  figure  of 
a  man,  his  clothes  hanging  in  sooty  ribbons,  and  his  face  and 
body  blackened  beyond  recognition.  Only  the  whites  of  his 
eyes  seemed  to  mark  him  from  the  wreckage  which  surrounded 
him.  In  a  high-pitched  voice  he  called  to  us,  and  we  knew  that 
he  was  mad.  "Come  !  Come  !"  he  cried.  "Let's  get  out  of 
here.  Come  on,  boys!  Let's  go  somewhere";  and  then,  as 
his  arms  instinctively  caught  our  necks,  and  we  felt  for  his 
waist,  he  began  talking  to  Jesus.  With  our  swaying  burden,  we 
turned  and  retraced  our  steps  down  the  entry,  and  fifteen 
minutes  after  our  descent  into  the  mine,  we  handed  out  of  the 
hoist  the  first  man  rescued,  to  his  friends. 

Once  more  came  the  vision  of  the  great  black  wall  of  people 
in  the  Ughts  at  the  mine-mouth,  and  again  we  plunged  down 
into  the  blackness  and  silence  of  the  mine.  Reaching  bottom, 
we  walked  as  rapidly  as  we  were  able  beyond  the  point  where 
we  had  found  the  madman,  to  where  the  great  structure  of  the 
scale-house  had  once  filled  a  cross-cut  between  B  entry  and  the 
air-course  behind  it.     Where  once  had  been  solid  timbers  and 


THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  MINE 


429 


the  steel  structure  of  the  scales,  now  remained  nothing  but  the 
bare  walls  of  the  cross-cut,  swept  clean  by  a  giant  force,  and  in 
the  entry  the  crumbled  and  twisted  wreckage  marked  where  the 
force  of  the  explosion  had  dropped  it  in  its  course.  With  a 
swing  of  my  light  I  swept  the  floor  of  the  cross-cut.  Halfway 
down  it,  on  the  floor,  lay  what  seemed  to  be  a  long  bundle  of 
rags.  I  knew  it  was  a  man.  There  was  no  movement  as  I 
walked  toward  it,  and  as  I  knelt  over  it  a  sudden  impulse  came 
to  me  to  disbelieve  my  first  thought  that  this  could  be  a  man. 
Prevented  from  seeing  clearly  by  the  bull's-eye  of  my  helmet 
and  the  poor  light  of  my  electric  lamp,  I  felt  for  his  chest,-  and 
as  my  hand  touched  his  breast,  I  felt  that  it  was  warm  and 
wet.  Perhaps  he  was  alive.  I  ran  my  light  along  the  bundle. 
Those  were  his  feet.  I  turned  it  the  other  way.  The  man 
was  headless.  Instantly  I  got  to  my  feet,  and  in  the  faint 
glimmer  of  McPherson's  hght  I  saw  that  he  had  found  some- 
thing in  the  wreckage.  "What  is  it?"  I  bellowed  to  him 
through  my  helmet.  He  pointed  with  his  ray  of  light.  A 
body  hung  in  the  mass  of  wreckage,  thrown  into  it  like  putty 
against  a  screen.  We  turned  and  continued  our  way  up  the 
entry. 

Halfway  between  the  shafts  there  was  a  temporary  canvas 
stopping,  and  we  knew  that  if  we  could  tear  this  down,  the  air 
from  the  fan  which  had  been  speeded  up  must  short-circuit, 
and  pass  through  B  entry,  clearing  out  the  after-damp  before 
it.  Most  of  the  men,  if  not  all,  would  be  in  this  entry ;  of  that 
we  were  confident.  By  'tearing  down  the  brattice  and  freeing 
the  direction  of  the  ventilation,  life  might  be  saved. 

As  I  have  said,  I  had  entered  the  mine  on  my  first  trip  with 
a  short  charge  of  oxygen,  and  in  the  urgency  had  failed  to  re- 
plenish it  before  going  down  the  second  time.  As  I  turned 
from  the  cross-cut  a  sudden  tugging  at  my  lungs  told  me  that 
my  air  was  running  low.  Beside  the  track,  in  a  pool  of  water, 
lay  a  blackened  object  that  I  knew  to  be  a  man.  He  was  the 
only  one  I  recognized,  and  I  knew  that  it  must  be  Daman,  one 
of  the  gas  inspectors,  —  the  body  was  so  small.  A  few  feet 
beyond  him  lay  another,  and  another,  all  blackened  and  un- 


43©  INCIDENT 

recognizable.  The  white  wall  of  the  brattice  gleamed  suddenly 
before  us,  and  in  a  second  we  had  torn  it  from  its  fastenings. 
One  side  had  already  disapiK'ared  from  the  force  of  the  explosion. 
Why  it  was  not  all  torn  to  ribbons,  I  do  not  know. 

As  I  turned,  I  called  to  McPherson  that  I  was  in,  and  as  I 
spoke  a  sudden  blackness  engulfed  me.  My  air  was  gone. 
The  sights  of  that  awful  night  and  the  long  strain  of  the  months 
of  dangerous  work  on  high-strung  nerves  had  caught  me.  I 
came  to  with  my  eyes  closed,  and  a  clean,  sweet  taste  of  fresh 
air  in  my  mouth.  I  thought  I  was  above  ground,  but  opening 
my  "eyes  I  saw  that  I  was  looldng  through  the  bull's  eye  of  my 
helmet  at  a  blackened  roof,  dim  in  the  single  shaft  of  a  lamp. 
McPherson  was  talking  to  me.  He  had  dragged  me  from  where 
I  lay  to  where  he  had  felt  the  air  blow  strongest.  My  weight, 
increased  by  the  forty-five  pounds  of  the  helmet,  made  it  im- 
possible for  him  to  think  of  moving  me  unaided.  There  was 
no  time  to  summon  assistance.  In  the  strong  current  of  air, 
he  had  opened  my  valves  and  trusted  that,  revived  by  the  fresh 
air,  I  could  reach  the  hoisting-shaft  under  my  own  locomotion 
before  the  after-damp  could  overcome  me.  Faint  and  reeling, 
I  got  to  my  feet ;  we  started  down  the  entry,  our  arms  about 
each  other's  necks.  We  were  both  staggering,  and  halfway  to 
the  sump  I  fell.  Then  we  crawled  and  rested  and  crawled  again. 
I  think  I  remember  splashing  in  the  water  at  the  foot  of  the 
hoisting  shaft,  but  nothing  more.  We  had  saved  only  one  man 
of  the  twenty-seven  who  had  entered  the  mine. 


AN  ELEPHANT  HUNT  ^ 
Theodore  Roosevelt 

For  two  days  after  reaching  our  camp  in  the  open  glade  on 
the  mountain  side  it  rained.  We  were  glad  of  this,  because  it 
meant  that  the  elephants  would  not  be  in  the  bamboos,  and 
Cuninghame  and  the  'Ndorobo  went  off  to  hunt  for  fresh  signs, 

'  From  African  Game  Trails.     Charles  Scribner's  Sons.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


AN  ELEPHANT  HUNT  43I 

Cuninghame  is  as  skilful  an  elephant  hunter  as  can  be  found  in 
Africa,  and  is  one  of  the  very  few  white  men  able  to  help  even 
the  wild  bushmen  at  their  work.  By  the  afternoon  of  the  second 
day  they  were  fairly  well  satisfied  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  the 
quarry. 

The  following  morning  a  fine  rain  was  still  falling  when 
Cuninghame,  Heller,  and  I  started  on  our  hunt;  but  by  noon 
it  had  stopped.  Of  course  we  went  in  single  file  and  on  foot ; 
not  even  a  bear  hunter  from  the  cane-brakes  of  the  lower  Mis- 
sissippi could  ride  through  that  forest.  We  left  our  home  camp 
standing,  taking  blankets  and  a  coat  and  change  of  under- 
clothing for  each  of  us,  and  two  small  Whymper  tents,  with 
enough  food  for  three  days ;  I  also  took  my  wash  kit  and  a  book 
from  the  Pigskin  Library.  First  marched  the  'Ndorobo  guides, 
each  with  his  spear,  his  blanket  round  his  shoulders,  and  a  little 
bundle  of  corn  and  sweet-potato.  Then  came  Cuninghame, 
followed  by  his  gun-bearer.  Then  I  came,  clad  in  khaki-colored 
flannel  shirt  and  khaki  trousers  buttoning  down  the  legs,  with 
hobnailed  shoes  and  a  thick  slouch  hat ;  I  had  intended  to  wear 
rubber-soled  shoes,  but  the  soaked  ground  was  too  slippery. 
My  two  gun-bearers  followed,  carrying  the  Holland  and  the 
Springfield.  Then  came  Heller,  at  the  head  of  a  dozen  porters 
and  skinners ;  he  and  they  were  to  fall  behind  when  we  actually 
struck  fresh  elephant  spoor,  but  to  follow  our  trail  by  the  help 
of  a  Dorobo  who  was  left  with  them. 

For  three  hours  our  route  lay  along  the  edge  of  the  woods. 
We  climbed  into  and  out  of  deep  ravines  in  which  groves  of  tree- 
ferns  clustered.  We  waded  through  streams  of  swift  water, 
whose  course  was  broken  by  cataract  and  rapid.  We  passed 
through  shambas,  and  by  the  doors  of  little  hamlets  of  thatched 
beehive  huts.  We  met  flocks  of  goats  and  hairy,  fat-tailed  sheep 
guarded  by  boys ;  strings  of  burden-bearing  women  stood  meekly 
to  one  side  to  let  us  pass ;  parties  of  young  men  sauntered  by, 
spear  in  hand. 

Then  we  struck  into  the  great  forest,  and  in  an  instant  the 
sun  was  shut  from  sight  by  the  thick  screen  of  wet  foliage. 
It  was  a  riot  of  twisted  vines,  interlacing  the  trees  and  bushes 


^^2  I  NCI  DE. XT 

Only  the  elephant  paths,  which,  of  every  age,  crossed  and  re- 
crossed  it  hither  and  thither,  made  it  passable.  One  of  the  chief 
difficulties  in  hunting  elephants  in  the  forest  is  that  it  is  impos- 
sible to  travel,  except  very  slowly  and  wath  much  noise,  off  these 
trails,  so  that  it  is  sometimes  very  difficult  to  take  advantage  of 
the  wind ;  and  although  the  sight  of  the  elephant  is  dull,  both 
its  sense  of  hearing  and  its  sense  of  smell  are  exceedingly  acute. 

Hour  after  hour  we  worked  our  way  onward  through  tangled 
forest  and  matted  jungle.  There  was  little  sign  of  bird  or  animal 
life.  A  troop  of  long-haired  black-and-white  monkeys  bounded 
away  among  the  tree-tops.  Here  and  there  brilliant  flowers 
lightened  the  gloom.  We  ducked  under  vines  and  climbed  over 
fallen  timber.  Poisonous  nettles  stung  our  hands.  We  were 
drenched  by  the  wet  boughs  w'hich  we  brushed  aside.  Mosses 
and  ferns  grew  rank  and  close.  The  trees  were  of  strange  kinds. 
There  were  huge  trees  with  little  leaves,  and  small  trees  with 
big  leaves.'  There  were  trees  with  bare,  fleshy  limbs,  that 
writhed  out  through  the  neighboring  branches,  bearing  sparse 
clusters  of  large  frondage.  In  places  the  forest  w^as  low,  the 
trees  thirty  or  forty  feet  high,  the  bushes  that  choked  the  ground 
between,  fifteen  or  twenty  feet  high.  In  other  places  mighty 
monarchs  of  the  wood,  straight  and  tall,  towered  aloft  to  an 
immense  height ;  among  them  were  trees  whose  smooth,  round 
boles  w'ere  spotted  like  sycamores,  while  far  above  our  heads 
their  gracefully  spreading  branches  were  hung  with  vines  like 
mistletoe  and  draped  with  Spanish  moss ;  trees  whose  surfaces 
were  corrugated  and  knotted  as  if  they  were  made  of  bundles  of 
great  creepers ;  and  giants  whose  buttressed  trujiks  were  four 
times  a  man's  length  across. 

Twice  we  got  on  elephant  spoor,  once  of  a  single  bull,  once 
of  a  party  of  three.  Then  Cuninghame  and  the  'Ndorobo 
redoubled  their  caution.  They  would  minutely  examine  the 
fresh  dung ;  and  above  all  they  continually  tested  the  wind, 
scanning  the  tree  tops  and  lighting  matches  to  see  from  the  smoke 
what  the  eddies  were  near  the  ground.  Each  time  after  an  hour's 
stealthy  stepping  and  crawling  along  the  twisted  trail  a  slight 
shift  of  the  wind  in  the  almost  still  air  gave  our  scent  to  the  game, 


AN  ELEPHANT  HUNT  433 

and  away  it  went  before  we  could  catch  a  glimpse  of  it ;  and  we 
resumed  our  walk.  The  elephant  paths  led  up  hill  and  down  — 
for  the  beasts  are  wonderful  climbers  —  and  wound  in  and  out 
in  every  direction.  They  were  marked  by  broken  branches  and 
the  splintered  and  shattered  trunks  of  the  smaller  trees,  espe- 
cially where  the  elephant  had  stood  and  fed,  trampling  down 
the  bushes  for  many  yards  around.  Where  they  had  crossed 
the  marshy  valleys  they  had  punched  big  round  holes,  three 
feet  deep  in  the  sticky  mud. 

As  evening  fell  we  pitched  camp  by  the  side  of  a  little  brook 
at  the  bottom  of  a  ravine,  and  dined  ravenously  on  bread, 
mutton,  and  tea.  The  air  was  keen,  and  under  our  blankets  we 
slept  in  comfort  until  dawn.  Breakfast  was  soon  over  and  camp 
struck ;  and  once  more  we  began  our  cautious  progress  through 
the  dim,  cool  archways  of  the  mountain  forest. 

Two  hours  after  leaving  camp  we  came  across  the  fresh  trail 
of  a  small  herd  of  perhaps  ten  or  fifteen  elephant  cows  and  calves, 
but  including  two  big  herd  bulls.  At  once  we  took  up  the  trail. 
Cuninghame  and  his  bush  people  consulted  again  and  again, 
scanning  every  track  and  mark  with  minute  attention.  The 
sign  showed  that  the  elephants  had  fed  in  the  shambas  early 
in  the  night,  had  then  returned  to  the  mountain,  and  stood  in 
one  place  resting  for  several  hours,  and  had  left  this  sleeping 
ground  some  time  before  we  reached  it.  After  we  had  followed 
the  trail  a  short  while  we  made  the  experiment  of  trying  to  force 
our  own  way  through  the  jungle,  so  as  to  get  the  wind  more 
favorable;  but  our  progress  was  too  slow  and  noisy,  and  we 
returned  to  the  path  the  elephants  had  beaten.  Then  the 
'Ndorobo  was  ahead,  travelling  noiselessly  and  at  speed.  One 
of  them  was  clad  in  a  white  blanket,  and  another  in  a  red  one, 
which  were  conspicuous ;  but  they  were  too  silent  and  cautious 
to  let  the  beasts  see  them,  and  could  tell  exactly  where  they 
were  and  what  they  were  doing  by  the  sounds.  When  these 
trackers  waited  for  us  they  would  appear  before  us  like  ghosts ; 
once  one  of  them  dropped  down  from  the  branches  above, 
having  chmbed  a  tree  with  monkey-like  agility  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  great  game. 


434 


INCIDENT 


At  last  wc  could  hear  the  elephants,  and  under  Cuninghame's 
lead  we  walked  more  cautiously  than  ever.  The  wind  was  right, 
and  the  trail  of  one  elephant  led  close  alongside  that  of  the  rest 
of  the  herd,  and  parallel  thereto.  It  was  about  noon.  The 
elephants  moved  slowly,  and  we  listened  to  the  boughs  crack, 
and  now  and  then  to  the  curious  internal  rumblings  of  the  great 
beasts.  Carefully,  every  sense  on  the  alert,  we  kept  pace  with 
them.  My  double-barrel  was  in  my  hands,  and  wherever  pos- 
sible, as  I  followed  the  trail,  I  stepped  in  the  huge  footprints 
of  the  elephant,  for  where  such  a  weight  had  pressed  there  were 
no  sticks  left  to  crack  under  my  feet.  It  made  our  veins  thrill 
thus  for  half  an  hour  to  creep  stealthily  along,  but  a  few  rods 
from  the  herd,  never  able  to  see  it,  because  of  the  extreme  dense- 
ness  of  the  cover,  but  always  hearing  first  one  and  then  another 
of  its  members,  and  always  trying  to  guess  what  each  might 
do,  and  keeping  ceaselessly  ready  for  whatever  might  befall, 
A  flock  of  hornbills  flew  up  with  noisy  clamor,  but  the  elephants 
did  not  heed  them. 

At  last,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  mighty  game.  The  trail 
took  a  twist  to  one  side,  and  there,  thirty  yards  in  front  of  us, 
we  made  out  part  of  the  gray  and  massive  head  of  an  elephant 
resting  his  tusks  on  the  branches  of  a  young  tree.  A  couple 
of  minutes  passed  before,  by  cautious  scrutiny,  we  were  able 
to  tell  whether  the  animal  was  a  cow  or  a  bull,  and  whether, 
if  a  bull,  it  carried  heavy  enough  tusks.  Then  we  saw  that  it 
was  a  big  bull  with  good  ivory.  It  turned  its  head  in  my  direc- 
tion and  I  saw  its  eye ;  and  I  fired  a  little  to  one  side  of  the  eye, 
at  a  spot  which  I  thought  would  lead  to  the  brain.  I  struck 
exactly  where  I  aimed,  but  the  head  of  an  elephant  is  enormous 
and  the  brain  is  small,  and  the  bullet  missed  it.  How^ever,  the 
shock  momentarily  stunned  the  beast.  He  stumbled  forward, 
half  falling,  and  as  he  recovered  I  fired  with  the  second  barrel, 
again  aiming  for  the  brain.  This  time  the  bullet  sped  true,  and 
as  I  lowered  the  rifle  from  my  shoulder,  I  saw  the  great  lord  of 
the  forest  come  crashing  to  the  ground. 

But  at  that  very  instant,  before  there  was  a  moment's  time  in 
which  to  reload,  the  thick  bushes  parted  immediately  on  my  left 


AN  ELEPHANT  HUNT  .  435 

front,  and  through  them  surged  the  vast  bulk  of  a  charging  bull 
elephant,  the  matted  mass  of  tough  creepers  snapping  like 
packthread  before  his  rush.  He  was  so  close  that  he  could  have 
touched  me  with  his  trunk.  I  leaped  to  one  side  and  dodged 
behind  a  tree  trunk,  opening  the  rifle,  throwing  out  the  empty 
shells,  and  slipping  in  two  cartridges.  Meanwhile  Cuninghame 
fired  right  and  left,  at  the  same  time  throwing  himself  into  the 
bushes  on  the  other  side.  Both  his  bullets  went  home,  and  the 
bull  stopped  short  in  his  charge,  wheeled,  and  immediately 
disappeared  in  the  thick  cover.  We  ran  forward,  but  the  forest 
had  closed  over  his  wake.  We  heard  him  trumpet  shrilly,  and 
then  all  sounds  ceased. 

The  'Ndorobo,  who  had  quite  properly  disappeared  when  this 
second  bull  charged,  now  went  forward  and  soon  returned  with 
the  report  that  he  had  fled  at  speed,  but  was  evidently  hard  hit, 
as  there  was  much  blood  on  the  spoor.  If  we  had  been  only 
after  ivory  we  should  have  followed  him  at  once :  but  there 
was  no  telling  how  long  a  chase  he  might  lead  us ;  and  as  we 
desired  to  save  the  skin  of  the  dead  elephant  entire,  there  was 
no  time  whatever  to  spare.  It  is  a  formidable  task,  occupying 
many  days,  to  preserve  an  elephant  for  mounting  in  a  museum, 
and  if  the  skin  is  to  be  properly  saved,  it  must  be  taken  off 
without  an  hour's  unnecessary  delay. 

So  back  we  turned  to  where  the  dead  tusker  lay,  and  I  felt 
proud  indeed  as  I  stood  by  the  immense  bulk  of  the  slain  monster 
and  put  my  hand  on  the  ivory.  The  tusks  weighed  a  hundred 
and  thirty  pounds  the  pair.  There  was  the  usual  scene  of  joyful 
excitement  among  the  gun-bearers  —  who  had  behaved  excel- 
lently —  and  among  the  wild  bush  people  who  had  done  the 
tracking  for  us ;  and,  as  Cuninghame  had  predicted,  the  old 
Masai  Dorobo,  from  pure  delight,  proceeded  to  have  hysterics 
on  the  body  of  the  dead  elephant.  The  scene  was  repeated  when 
Heller  and  the  porters  appeared  half  an  hour  later.  Then, 
chattering  like  monkeys,  and  as  happy  as  possible,  all,  porters, 
gun-bearers,  and  'Ndorobo  alike,  began  the  work  of  skinning 
and  cutting  up  the  quarry,  under  the  leadership  and  supervision 
of  Heller  and  Cuninghame,  and  soon  they  were  all  splashed  with 


430  INCIDENT 

blood  from  head  to  foot.  One  of  the  trackers  took  off  his  blanket 
and  squatted  stark  naked  inside  the  carcass  the  better  to  use  his 
knife.  Each  laborer  rewarded  himself  by  cutting  off  strips  of 
meat  for  his  private  store,  and  hung  them  in  red  festoons  from 
the  branches  round  about.  There  was  no  let  up  in  the  work 
until  it  was  stopped  by  darkness. 

Our  tents  were  pitched  in  a  small  open  glade  a  hundred  yards 
from  the  dead  elephant.  The  night  was  clear,  the  stars  shone 
brightly,  and  in  the  west  the  young  moon  hung  just  above  the 
line  of  tall  tree  tops.  Fires  were  speedily  kindled  and  the  men 
sat  around  them,  feasting  and  singing  in  a  strange  minor  tone 
until  late  in  the  night.  The  flickering  light  left  them  at  one 
moment  in  black  obscurity,  and  the  next  brought  into  bold 
relief  their  sinewy  crouching  figures,  their  dark  faces,  gleam- 
ing eyes,  and  flashing  teeth.  When  they  did  sleep,  two  of  the 
'Ndorobo  slept  so  close  to  the  fire  as  to  burn  themselves;  an 
accident  to  which  they  are  prone,  judging  from  the  many  scars 
of  old  bums  on  their  legs.  I  toasted  slices  of  elephant's  heart 
on  a  pronged  stick  before  the  fire,  and  found  it  delicious; 
for  I  was  hungry,  and  the  night  was  cold.  We  talked  of  our 
success  and  exulted  over  it,  and  made  our  plans  for  the  morrow ; 
and  then  we  turned  in  under  our  blankets  for  another  night's 
sleep. 


IV.    C.   BIOGRAPHY   AND   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 
JEANNE  D'ARC^ 

John  Richard  Green 

Jeanne  D'Arc  was  the  child  of  a  laborer  of  Domremy,  a 
little  village  in  the  neighborhood  of  Vaucouleurs  on  the  borders 
of  Lorraine  and  Champagne.  Just  without  the  cottage  where 
she  was  born  began  the  great  woods  of  the  Vosges  where  the 
children  of  Domremy  drank  in  poetry  and  legend  from  fairy 
ring  and  haunted  well,  hung  their  flower  garlands  on  the  sacred 
trees,  and  sang  songs  to  the  "good  people"  who  might  not  drink 
of  the  fountain  because  of  their  sins.  Jeanne  loved  the  forest ; 
its  birds  and  beasts  came  lovingly  to  her  at  her  childish  call. 
But  at  home  men  saw  nothing  in  her  but  "a  good  girl,  simple 
and  pleasant  in  her  ways,"  spinning  and  sewing  by  her  mother's 
side  while  the  other  girls  went  to  the  fields,  tender  to  the  poor 
and  sick,  fond  of  church,  and  listening  to  the  church-bell  with 
a  dreamy  passion  of  delight  which  never  left  her.  This  c|uiet 
life  was  broken  by  the  storm  of  war  as  it  at  last  came  home  to 
Domremy.  As  the  outcasts  and  wounded  passed  by  the  little 
village,  the  young  peasant  girl  gave  them  her  bed  and  nursed 
them  in  their  sickness.  Her  whole  nature  summed  itself  up 
in  one  absorbing  passion:  she  "had  pity,"  to  use  the  phrase 
forever  on  her  lip,  "on  the  fair  realm  of  France."  As  her 
passion  grew  she  recalled  old  prophecies  that  a  maid  from  the 
Lorraine  border  should  save  the  land ;  she  saw  visions ;  St. 
Michael  appeared  to  her  in  a  flood  of  blinding  light,  and  bade 
her  go  to  the  help  of  the  King  and  restore  to  him  his  realm. 
"Messire,"  answered  the  girl,  "I  am  but  a  poor  maiden;  I 
know  not  how  to  ride  to  the  wars,  or  to  lead  men-at-arms." 

'  From  History  of  the  English  People. 
437 


438  BIOGRAPHY   AXD  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

The  archangel  returned  to  give  her  courage,  and  to  tell  her  ol 
"  the  pity"  that  there  was  in  heaven  for  the  fair  realm  of  France. 
The  girl  wept  and  longed  that  the  angels  who  appeared  to  her 
would  carry  her  away,  but  her  mission  was  clear.  It  was  in 
vain  that  her  father  when  he  heard  her  purpose  swore  to  drown 
her  ere  she  should  go  to  the  field  with  men-at-arms.  It  was 
in  vain  that  the  priest,  the  wise  people  of  the  village,  the  captain 
of  Vaucouleurs,  doubted  and  refused  to  aid  her.  "I  must  go  to 
the  King,"  persisted  the  peasant  girl,  "even  if  I  wear  my  limbs 
to  the  very  knees."  "I  had  far  rather  rest  and  spin  by  my 
mother's  side,"  she  pleaded  with  a  touching  pathos,  "for  this 
is  no  work  of  my  choosing,  but  I  must  go  and  do  it,  for  my  Lord 
wills  it."  "And  who,"  they  asked,  "is  your  Lord?"  "He  is 
God."  Words  such  as  these  touched  the  rough  captain  at 
last :  he  took  Jeanne  by  the  hand  and  swore  to  lead  her  to  the 
King.  She  reached  Chinon  in  the  opening  of  March,  but  here 
too  she  found  hesitation  and  doubt.  The  theologians  proved 
from  their  books  that  they  ought  not  to  believe  her.  "There 
is  more  in  God's  book  than  in  yours,"  Jeanne  answered  simply. 
At  last  Charles  himself  received  her  in  the  midst  of  a  throng  of 
nobles  and  soldiers.  "Gentle  Dauphin,"  said  the  girl,  "my 
name  is  Jeanne  the  Maid.  The  Heavenly  King  sends  me  to 
tell  you  that  you  shall  be  anointed  and  crowned  in  the  town  of 
Rheims,  and  you  shall  be  lieutenant  of  the  Heavenly  King  who 
is  the  King  of  France." 

Orleans  had  already  been  driven  by  famine  to  offers  of  sur- 
render when  Jeanne  appeared  in  the  French  court,  and  a  force 
was  gathering  under  the  Count  of  Dunois  at  Blois  for  a  final 
effort  at  its  relief.  It  was  at  the  head  of  this  force  that  Jeanne 
placed  herself.  The  girl  was  in  her  eighteenth  year,  tall,  finely 
formed,  with  all  the  vigor  and  activity  of  her  peasant  rearing, 
able  to  stay  from  dawn  to  nightfall  on  horseback  without  meat 
or  drink.  As  she  mounted  her  charger,  clad  in  white  armor 
from  head  to  foot,  with  a  great  white  banner  studded  with 
fleur-de-lys  waving  over  her  head,  she  seemed  "a  thing  wholly 
di\ine,  whether  to  see  or  hear."  The  ten  thousand  men-at-arms 
who  followed    her  from   Blois,   rough  plunderers  whose  only 


JEANNE  D'ARC 


439 


prayer  was  that  of  La  Hire,  "Sire  Dieu,  I  pray  you  to  do  for 
La  Hire  what  La  Hire  would  do  for  you,  were  you  captain-at- 
arms  and  he  God,"  left  off  their  oaths  and  foul  Hving  at  her  word 
and  gathered  round  the  altars  on  their  march.  Her  shrewd 
peasant  humor  helped  her  to  manage  the  wild  soldiery,  and  her 
followers  laughed  over  their  camp-fires  at  an  old  warrior  who 
had  been  so  puzzled  by  her  prohibition  of  oaths  that  she  suffered 
him  still  to  swear  by  his  baton.  For  in  the  midst  of  her  enthu- 
siasm her  good  sense  never  left  her.  The  people  crowded  round 
her  as  she  rode  along,  praying  her  to  work  miracles,  and  bringing 
crosses  and  chaplets  to  be  blest  by  her  touch.  "Touch  them 
yourself,"  she  said  to  an  old  Dame  Margaret ;  "your  touch  will 
be  just  as  good  as  mine."  But  her  faith  in  her  mission  remained 
as  firm  as  ever.  "The  Maid  prays  and  requires  you,"  she 
wrote  to  Bedford,  "to  work  no  more  distraction  in  France  but 
to  come  in  her  company  to  rescue  the  Holy  Sepulchre  from  the 
Turk."  "I  bring  you,"  she  told  Dunois  when  he  sallied  out  of 
Orleans  to  meet  her  after  her  two  days'  march  from  Blois,  "I 
bring  you  the  best  aid  ever  sent  to  any  one,  the  aid  of  the  King 
of  Heaven."  The  besiegers  looked  on  overawed  as  she  entered 
Orleans,  and  riding  round  the  walls,  bade  the  people  shake  off 
their  fear  of  the  forts  which  surrounded  them.  Her  enthusiasm 
drove  the  hesitating  generals  to  engage  the  handful  of  besiegers, 
and  the  enormous  disproportion  of  forces  at  once  made  itself 
felt.  Fort  after  fort  was  taken  until  only  the  strongest  remained, 
and  then  the  council  of  war  resolved  to  adjourn  the  attack. 
"You  have  taken  your  counsel,"  replied  Jeanne,  "and  I  take 
mine."  Placing  herself  at  the  head  of  the  men-at-arms,  she 
ordered  the  gates  to  be  thrown  open,  and  led  them  against  the 
fort.  Few  as  they  were,  the  English  fought  desperately,  and 
the  Maid,  who  had  fallen  wounded  while  endeavoring  to  scale 
its  walls,  was  borne  into  a  vineyard,  while  Dunois  sounded  the 
retreat.  "Wait  a  while!"  the  girl  imperiously  pleaded,  "eat 
and  drink  !  so  soon  as  my  standard  touches  the  wall  you  shall 
enter  the  fort."  It  touched,  and  the  assailants  burst  in.  On  the 
next  day  the  siege  was  abandoned,  and  on  the  eighth  of  May  the 
force  which  had  conducted  it  withdrew  in  good  order  to  the  north. 


440 


BIOGRAl'IIY  AM)  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 


In  the  midst  of  lu-r  triumph  Jeanne  still  remained  the  pure, 
tender-hearted  peasant  girl  of  the  Vosges.  Her  hrst  visit  as 
she  entered  Orleans  was  to  the  great  church,  and  there,  as  she 
knelt  at  mass,  she  wept  in  such  a  passion  of  devotion  that  "all 
the  people  wept  with  her."  Her  tears  burst  forth  afresh  at  her 
first  sight  of  bloodshed  and  of  the  corpses  strewn  over  the  l)attle- 
field.  She  grew  frightened  at  her  first  w^ound,  and  only  threw 
otlf  the  touch  of  womanly  fear  when  she  heard  the  signal  for 
retreat.  Yet  more  womanly  was  the  purity  with  which  she 
passed  through  the  brutal  warriors  of  a  mediaeval  camp.  It  was 
her  care  for  her  honor  which  led  her  to  clothe  herself  in  a  soldier's 
dress.  She  wept  hot  tears  when  told  of  the  foul  taunts  of  the 
English,  and  called  passionately  to  God  to  witness  her  chastity. 
"Yield  thee,  yield  thee,  Glasdale,"  she  cried  to  the  English 
warrior  whose  insults  had  been  foulest  as  he  fell  wounded  at  her 
feet,  ''you  called  me  harlot !  I  have  great  pity  on  your  soul." 
But  all  thought  of  herself  was  lost  in  the  thought  of  her  mission. 
It  was  in  vain  that  the  French  generals  strove  to  remain  on 
the  Loire.  Jeanne  was  resolute  to  complete  her  task,  and  while 
the  English  remained  panic-stricken  around  Paris  she  brought 
Charles  to  march  upon  Rheims,  the  old  crowning-place  of  the 
Kings  of  France.  Troyes  and  Chalons  submitted  as  she  reached 
them,  Rheims  drove  out  the  English  garrison  and  threw  open 
her  gates  to  the  king. 

With  his  coronation  the  Maid  felt  her  errand  to  be  over. 
"O  gentle  King,  the  pleasure  of  God  is  done,"  she  cried,  as  she 
flung  herself  at  the  feet  of  Charles  and  asked  leave  to  go  home. 
"Would  it  were  His  good  wdll,"  she  pleaded  with  the  Arch- 
bishop as  he  forced  her  to  remain,  "that  I  might  go  and  keep 
sheep  once  more  wth  my  sisters  and  my  brothers :  they  would 
be  so  glad  to  see  me  again!"  But  the  poUcy  of  the  French 
Court  detained  her  while  the  cities  of  the  North  of  France  opened 
their  gates  to  the  newly-consecrated  King.  Bedford,  however, 
who  had  been  left  without  money  or  men,  had  now  received  re- 
inforcements. Excluded  as  Cardinal  Beaufort  had  been  from 
the  Council  by  Gloucester's  intrigues,  he  poured  his  wealth 
without  stint  into  the  exhausted  treasury  till  his  loans  to  the 


JEANNE  D'ARC  44 1 

Crown  reached  the  sum  of  half-a-miUion ;  and  at  this  crisis  he 
unscrupulously  diverted  an  army  which  he  had  levied  at  his 
own  cost  for  a  crusade  against  the  Hussites  in  Bohemia  to  his 
nephew's  aid.  The  tide  of  success  turned  again.  Charles,  after 
a  repulse  before  the  walls  of  Paris,  fell  back  behind  the  Loire ; 
while  the  towns  on  the  Oise  submitted  anew  to  the  Duke  of 
Burgundy,  whose  more  active  aid  Bedford  had  bought  by  the 
cession  of  Champagne.  In  the  struggle  against  Duke  Philip 
Jeanne  fought  with  her  usual  bravery  but  with  the  fatal  con- 
sciousness that  her  mission  was  at  an  end,  and  during  the  de- 
fence of  Compiegne  in  the  May  of  1430  she  fell  into  the  power 
of  the  Bastard  of  Vendome,  to  be  sold  by  her  captor  into  the 
hands  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy  and  by  the  Duke  into  the  hands 
of  the  English.  To  the  English  her  triumphs  were  victories 
of  sorcery,  and  after  a  year's  imprisonment  she  was  brought  to 
trial  on  a  charge  of  heresy  before  an  ecclesiastical  court  with 
the  Bishop  of  Beauvais  at  its  head. 

Throughout  the  long  process  which  followed  every  art  was 
used  to  entangle  her  in  her  talk.  But  the  simple  shrewdness 
of  the  peasant  girl  foiled  the  efforts  of  her  judges.  "Do  you 
believe,"  they  asked,  "  that  you  are  in  a  state  of  grace  ?"  "If 
I  am  not,"  she  repHed,  "God  will  put  me  in  it.  If  I  am,  God 
will  keep  me  in  it."  Her  capture,  they  argued,  showed  that  God 
had  forsaken  her.  "  Since  it  has  pleased  God  that  I  should 
be  taken,"  she  answered  meekly,  "it  is  for  the  best."  "Will 
you  submit,"  they  demanded  at  last,  "to  the  judgment  of  the 
Church  MiHtant?"  "I  have  come  to  the  King  of  France," 
Jeanne  replied,  "by  commission  from  God  and  from  the  Church 
Triumphant  above:  to  that  Church  I  submit."  "I  had  far 
rather  die,"  she  ended  passionately,  "  than  renounce  what  I  have 
done  by  my  Lord's  command."  They  deprived  her  of  mass. 
"Our  Lord  can  make  me  hear  it  without  your  aid,"  she  said, 
weeping.  "Do  your  voices,"  asked  the  judges,  "forbid  you  to 
submit  to  the  Church  and  the  Pope  ? "  "Ah,  no  !  our  Lord  first 
served."  Sick,  and  deprived  of  all  religious  aid,  it  was  no  wonder 
that  as  the  long  trial  dragged  on  and  question  followed  question, 
Jeanne's  firmness  wavered.     On  the  charge  of  sorcery  and  dia- 


442  BIOGRAPHY  AM)  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

bolical  possession  she  still  appealed  firinly  to  God.  "I  hold  to 
my  Judge,"  she  said,  as  her  earthly  judges  gave  sentence  against 
her,  "to  the  King  of  Heaven  and  Ivirth.  God  has  always  been 
my  Lord  in  all  that  I  have  done.  The  d  ,-vil  has  never  had  power 
o\er  me."  It  was  only  with  a  view  to  be  delivered  from  the 
military  prison  and  transferred  to  the  prisons  of  the  Church  that 
she  consented  to  a  formal  abjuration  of  heresy.  She  feared  in 
fact  among  the  soldiery  those  outrages  to  her  honor,  on  guard 
against  which  she  had  from  the  first  assumed  the  dress  of  a  man. 
In  the  eyes  of  the  Church  her  dress  was  a  crime  and  she  abandoned 
it ;  Init  a  renewed  affront  forced  her  to  resume  the  one  safeguard 
left  her,  and  the  return  to  it  was  treated  as  a  relapse  into  heresy 
which  doomed  her  to  death.  At  the  close  of  May,  143 1,  a  great 
pile  was  raised  in  the  market-place  of  Rouen  where  her  statue 
now  stands.  Even  the  brutal  soldiers  who  snatched  the  hated 
"witch"  from  the  hands  of  the  clergy  and  hurried  her  to  her 
doom  were  hushed  as  she  reached  the  stake.  One  indeed  passed 
to  her  a  rough  cross  he  had  made  from  a  stick  he  held,  and  she 
clasped  it  to  her  bosom.  As  her  eyes  ranged  over  the  city  from 
the  lofty  scaffold  she  was  heard  to  murmur,  "0  Rouen,  Rouen, 
I  have  great  fear  lest  you  suffer  for  my  death."  "Yes!  my 
voices  were  of  God  ! "  she  suddenly  cried  as  the  last  moment 
came;  "they  have  never  deceived  me!"  Soon  the  flames 
reached  her,  the  girl's  head  sank  on  her  breast,  there  was  one 
cry  of  "Jesus  !"  —  "We  are  lost,"  an  English  soldier  muttered 
as  the  crowd  broke  up;  "we  have  burned  a  Saint," 


GOING  INTO   BUSINESS  1 
Jacob  A.  Rus 

Somewhat  suddenly  and  quite  unexpectedly,  a  business 
career  opened  for  me  that  winter.  Once  I  had  tried  to  crowd 
into  it  uninvited,  but  the  result  was  not  good.     It  was  when 

'  From  The  Making  of  an  American.  The  Macmillan  Company,  1901.  Reprinted 
by  permission. 


GOING  INTO  BUSINESS  443 

I  had  observed  that,  for  the  want  of  the  window  reflectors  which 
were  much  in  use  in  the  old  country,  American  ladies  were  at 
a  disadvantage  in  their  homes  in  not  being  able  to  make  out 
undesirable  company  at  a  distance,  themselves  unseen,  and 
conveniently  forgetting  that  they  were  "in."  This  civilizing 
agency  I  set  about  supplying  forthwith.  I  made  a  model 
and  took  it  to  a  Yankee  business  man,  to  whom  I  explained  its 
use.  He  listened  attentively,  took  the  model,  and  said  he  had 
a  good  mind  to  have  me  locked  up  for  infringing  the  patent  laws 
of  other  lands ;  but  because  I  had  sinned  from  ignorance  he 
would  refrain.  His  manner  was  so  impressive  that  he  really 
made  me  uneasy  lest  I  had  broken  some  kind  of  a  law  I  knew 
not  of.  From  the  fact  that  not  long  after  -window  reflectors 
began  to  make  their  appearance  in  Buffalo,  I  infer  that,  whatever 
the  enactment,  it  did  not  apply  to  natives,  or  else  that  he  was 
a  very  fearless  man,  willing  to  take  the  risk  from  which  he  would 
save  me  —  a  sort  of  commercial  philanthropist.  However,  by 
that  time  I  had  other  things  to  think  of,  being  a  drummer  and 
a  very  energetic  one. 

It  came  about  in  this  way :  some  countrymen  of  mine  had 
started  a  cooperative  furniture-factory  in  Jamestown,  where 
there  were  water-power  and  cheap  lumber.  They  had  no  capital, 
but  just  below  was  the  oil  country,  where  everybody  had  money, 
slathers  of  it.  New  wells  gushed  every  day,  and  boom  towns 
were  springing  up  all  along  the  Alleghany  Valley.  Men  were 
streaming  into  it  from  everywhere,  and  needed  furniture.  If 
once  they  got  the  grip  on  that  country,  reasoned  the  furniture- 
makers,  they  would  get  rich  quickly  with  the  rest.  The  thing 
was  to  get  it.  To  do  that  they  needed  a  man  who  could  talk. 
Perhaps  they  remembered  the  creation  of  the  world  the  year 
before.  At  all  events,  they  sent  up  to  Buffalo  and  asked  me  if 
I  would  try. 

I  slammed  my  tool-box  shut  and  started  for  Jamestown  on 
the  next  train.  Twenty-four  hours  later  saw  me  headed  for 
the  oil  country,  equipped  with  a  mighty  album  and  a  price-list. 
The  album  contained  pictures  of  the  furniture  T  had  for  sale. 
All  the  way  down  I  studied  the  price-list,  and  when  I  reached 


444  BIOGRAPHY   A\D  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Titusville  I  knew  to  a  cent  what  it  cost  my  employers  per  foot 
to  make  ash  extension  tables.  I  only  wish  they  had  known 
half  as  well. 

M\'  first  customer  was  a  grumpy  old  shopkeeper  who  needed 
neither  tables  nor  bedsteads,  so  he  said.  But  I  had  thought  it 
all  over  and  made  up  my  mind  that  the  first  blow  was  half  the 
battle.  Therefore  I  knew  better.  I  pushed  my  album  under 
his  nose,  and  it  fell  open  at  the  extension  tables.  Cheap,  I 
said,  and  rattled  off  the  price.  I  saw  him  prick  up  his  ears,  but 
he  only  growled  that  probably  they  were  no  good. 

What !  my  extension  tables  no  good  ?  I  dared  him  to  try 
them,  and  he  gave  me  an  order  for  a  dozen,  but  made  me  sign 
an  agreement  that  they  were  to  be  every  way  as  represented. 
I  would  have  backed  my  tables  with  an  order  for  the  whole  shop, 
so  sure  was  I  that  they  could  not  be  beaten.  The  idea  !  With 
the  fit  of  righteous  indignation  upon  me,  I  went  out  and  sold 
every  other  furniture-dealer  in  Titusxdlle  a  bill  of  tables ;  not 
one  of  them  escaped.  At  night,  when  I  had  sent  the  order  home, 
I  set  out  for  Oil  City,  so  as  to  lose  no  valuable  time. 

It  was  just  the  same  there.  For  some  reason  they  were  sus- 
picious of  the  extension  tables,  yet  they  wanted  nothing  else. 
I  had  to  give  ironclad  guarantees  that  they  were  as  represented, 
which  I  did  impatiently  enough.  There  was  a  thunderstorm 
raging  at  the  time.  The  lightning  had  struck  a  tank,  and  the 
burning  oil  ran  down  a  hill  and  set  the  town  on  fire.  One  end 
of  it  was  burning  while  I  was  canvassing  the  other,  mentally 
calculating  how  many  extension  tables  would  be  needed  to  re- 
place those  that  were  lost.  People  did  not  seem  to  have  heard 
of  any  other  kind  of  furniture  in  that  country.  Walnut  bed- 
steads, marble- top  bureaus,  turned  washstands  —  they  passed 
them  all  by  to  fall  upon  the  tables  \\*ith  shrill  demand.  I  made 
out  their  case  to  suit  the  facts,  as  I  swept  down  through  that 
region,  scattering  extension  tables  right  and  left.  It  was  the 
excitement,  I  reasoned,  the  inrush  of  population  from  every- 
where ;  probably  everybody  kept  boarders,  more  every  day ; 
had  to  extend  their  tables  to  seat  them.  I  saw  a  great  oppor- 
tunity and  resolutely  grasped  it.     If  it  was  tables  they  wanted, 


GOING  INTO  BUSINESS  445 

tables  it  should  be.  I  let  all  the  rest  of  the  stock  go  and  threw 
myself  on  the  tables  exclusively.  Town  after  town  I  filled 
with  them.  Night  after  night  the  mails  groaned  under  the  heavy 
orders  for  extension  tables  I  sent  north.  From  Alleghany  City 
alone  an  order  of  a  thousand  dollars'  worth  from  a  single  repu- 
table dealer  went  home,  and  I  figured  in  my  note-book  that  night 
a  commission  of  fifty  dollars  for  myself  plus  my  salary. 

I  could  know  nothing  of  the  despatches  that  were  hot  on  my 
trail  ever  since  my  first  order  came  from  Titusville,  telling  me 
to  stop,  let  up  on  the  tables,  come  home,  anything ;  there  was 
a  mistake  in  the  price.  They  never  overtook  me.  My  pace 
was  too  hot  for  that.  Anyhow,  I  doubt  if  I  would  have  paid 
any  attention  to  them.  I  had  my  instructions  and  was  selling 
according  to  orders.  Business  was  good,  getting  better  every 
day.  The  firm  wrote  to  my  customers,  but  they  merely  sent 
back  copies  of  the  iron-clad  contract.  They  had  seen  my  in- 
structions, and  they  knew  it  was  all  right.  It  was  not  until 
I  brought  up,  my  last  penny  gone,  in  Rochester,  near  the  Ohio 
line,  that  the  firm  established  communication  with  me  at  last. 
Their  instructions  were  brief :  to  come  home  and  sell  no"^  more 
tables.  They  sent  ten  dollars,  but  gave  me  no  clew  to  their 
curious  decision,  with  things  booming  as  they  were. 

Being  in  the  field  I  considered  that,  whatever  was  up,  I  had 
a  better  command  of  the  situation.  I  decided  that  I  would  not 
go  home,  —  at  least  not  until  I  had  sold  a  few  more  extension 
tables  while  they  were  in  such  demand.  I  made  that  ten  dollars 
go  farther  than  ten  dollars  ever  went  before.  It  took  me  a  little 
way  into  Ohio,  to  Youngstown,  and  then  back  to  Pennsylvania, 
to  Warren  and  Meadville  and  Corry.  My  previous  training 
in  going  hungry  for  days  came  in  handy  at  last.  In  the  interests 
of  commerce,  I  let  my  dinners  go.  So  I  was  enabled  to  make 
a  final  dash  to  Erie,  where  I  planted  my  last  batch  of  tables 
before  I  went  home,  happy. 

I  got  home  in  time  to  assist  in  the  winding  up  of  the  concern. 
The  iron-clad  contracts  had  done  the  business.  My  customers 
would  not  listen  to  explanations.  When  told  that  the  price  of 
those  tables  was  lower  than  the  cost  of  working  up  the  wood, 


446  BIOGRAPHY  AND  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

llu-y  rcplictl  that  il  was  none  of  their  l)usiness.  They  had  their 
cDiitracts.  The  Allci^hany  man  threatened  suit,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  and  the  firm  gave  up.  Nobody  blamed  me,  for  1  had 
sold  according  to  orders ;  but  instead  of  four  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  wliich  I  had  figured  out  as  my  commission,  I  got  sevent\ - 
five  cents.  It  was  half  of  what  my  employer  had.  He  divided 
squarely,  and  I  could  not  in  reason  complain. 

I  sat  in  the  restaurant  where  he  had  explained  the  situation 
to  me,  and  tried  to  telescope  my  ambitions  dow-n  to  the  seventy- 
five-cent  standard,  when  my  eyes  fell  upon  a  copy  of  Harper's 
Weekly  that  lay  on  the  table.  Absent-mindedly  I  read  an  ad- 
vertisement in  small  t\TDe,  spelHng  it  over  idly  while  I  was  trying 
to  tliink  what  to  do  next. 

"Wanted,"  it  read,  "by  the  Myers  Manufacturing  Company, 
agents  to  sell  a  patent  flat  and  fluting  iron.  Samples  seventy- 
five  cents." 

The  address  was  somewhere  in  John  Street,  New  York. 
Samples  seventy-five  cents  !  I  repeated  it  mechanically.  Why, 
that  was  just  the  size  of  my  pile.  And  right  in  my  line  of  can- 
vassing, too  !  In  ten  minutes  it  w'as  on  the  way  to  New  York 
and  I  had  secured  a  provisional  customer  in  the  cook  at  the 
restaurant  for  an  iron  that  would  perform  what  this  one  promised, 
iron  the  shirt  and  flute  the  flounce  too.  In  three  days  the  iron 
came  and  proved  good.  I  started  in  canvassing  Jamestown  with 
it,  and  in  a  week  had  secured  orders  for  one  hundred  and  twenty, 
upon  which  my  profit  would  be  over  eighty  dollars.  Some- 
thing of  business  ways  must  have  stuck  to  me,  after  all,  from 
my  one  excursion  into  the  realm  of  trade ;  for  when  it  came  to 
delivering  the  goods  and  I  had  no  money,  I  went  boldly  to  a 
business  man  whose  wife  was  on  my  books,  and  offered,  if  he 
would  send  for  the  irons,  to  pay  for  them  as  I  took  them  out  of 
the  store.  He  made  no  bones  about  it,  but  sent  for  the  irons 
and  handed  them  over  to  me  to  pay  for  when  I  could.  So  men 
are  made.  Commercial  character,  as  it  is  rated  on  'change, 
I  had  none  before  that ;  but  I  had  after.  How^  could  I  dis- 
appoint a  man  like  that  ? 

The  confidence  of  the  commimity  I  had  not  lost  through  my 


GOING  INTO  BUSINESS  447 

too  successful  trip  as  a  drummer,  at  all  events.  Propositions 
came  speedily  to  me  to  "travel  in"  pianos  and  pumps  for  local 
concerns.  It  never  rains  but  it  pours.  An  old  schoolmate 
who  had  been  ordained  a  clergyman  wrote  to  me  from  Denmark 
to  find  him  a  charge  among  the  Danish  settlements  out  West. 
But  neither  pumps,  pianos,  nor  parsons  had  power  to  swerve 
me  from  my  chosen  course.  With  them  went  bosses  and  orders ; 
with  the  flat-iron  cherished  independence.  When  I  had  sold 
cut  Jamestown,  I  made  a  bee-line  for  Pittsburg,  a  city  that  had 
taken  my  fancy  because  of  its  brisk  business  ways.  They  were 
brisk  indeed.  Grant's  second  campaign  for  the  Presidency  was 
in  full  swing.  On  my  second  night  in  town  I  went  to  hear 
Horace  Greeley  address  an  open-air  meeting.  I  can  see  his 
noble  old  head  yet  above  the  crowd,  and  hear  his  opening  appeal. 
Farther  I  never  got.  A  marching  band  of  uniformed  shouters 
for  Grant  had  cut  right  through  the  crowd.  As  it  passed  I  felt 
myself  suddenly  seized ;  an  oilcloth  cape  was  thrown  over  my 
head,  a  campaign  cap  jammed  after,  and  I  found  myself  marching 
away  with  a  torch  on  my  shoulder  to  the  tune  of  a  brass  band 
just  ahead.  How  many  others  of  Mr.  Greeley's  hearers  fared 
as  I  did  I  do  not  know.  The  thing  seemed  so  ludicrous  (and 
if  I  must  march  I  really  cared  very  little  whether  it  was  for 
Greeley  or  Grant)  that  I  stuck  it  out,  hoping  as  we  went  to  come 
somewhere  upon  my  hat,  which  had  been  lost  in  the  sudden 
attack ;  but  I  never  saw  it  again. 

Speaking  of  parading,  my  old  desire  to  roam,  that  kept  crop- 
ping out  at  intervals,  played  me  a  characteristic  trick  at  this  time. 
I  was  passing  through  a  horse  market  when  I  saw  a  fine-looking, 
shapely  young  horse  put  up  at  what  seemed  a  ridiculously  low 
price.  Eighteen  dollars  was  the  bid,  and  it  was  about  to  be 
knocked  down  at  that.  The  October  sun  was  shining  warm  and 
bright.  A  sudden  desire  to  get  on  the  horse  and  ride  out  into 
the  wide  world,  away  from  the  city  and  the  haunts  of  men, 
never  to  come  back,  seized  me.  I  raised  the  bid  to  nineteen 
dollars.  Almost  before  I  knew,  the  beast  was  knocked  down 
to  me  and  I  had  paid  over  the  money.  It  left  me  with  exactly 
six  dollars  to  my  name. 


448  BIOGRAPHY  AND  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Loading  the  animal  by  the  halter,  I  went  down  the  street  and 
sat  on  the  stoop  of  the  Robinson  House  to  think.  With  every 
step,  perplexities  I  hadn't  thought  of  sprang  up.  Jii  the  first 
place,  I  could  not  ride.  I  had  always  wanted  to,  but  had 
never  learned.  Even  if  I  had  been  able  to,  where  was  I  going, 
and  to  do  what?  I  couldn't  ride  around  and  sell  flat-irons. 
The  wide  world  seemed  suddenly  a  cold  and  far-olT  place,  and 
six  dollars  but  small  backing  in  an  attack  upon  it,  with  a  hungry 
horse  waiting  to  be  fed.  I  hat  was  only  too  evident.  The 
beast  was  tearing  the  hitching-post  with  its  teeth  in  a  way  that 
brooked  no  delay.  Evidently  it  had  a  healthy  appetite.  The 
conclusion  was  slowly  dawning  upon  mc  that  I  had  made  a  fool 
of  myself,  when  the  man  who  had  bid  eighteen  dollars  came  by 
and  saw  me  sitting  there.  He  stopped  to  ask  what  was  the 
matter,  and  I  told  him  frankly.  He  roared  and  gave  me 
eighteen  dollars  for  the  beast.  I  was  glad  enough  to  give  it 
up.  I  never  owned  a  horse  before  or  since,  and  I  had  that 
less  than  fifteen  minutes ;  but  it  was  the  longest  quarter  of  an 
hour  since  I  worked  in  the  coal-mine. 

The  flat-iron  did  not  go  in  Pittsburg.  It  w^as  too  cheap. 
During  a  brief  interval  I  peddled  campaign  books,  but  shortly 
found  a  more  expensive  iron,  and  had  five  counties  in  western 
Pennsylvania  allotted  to  me  as  territory.  There  followed  a 
winter  of  great  business.  Before  it  was  half  over  I  had  achieved 
a  bank  account,  though  how  I  managed  it  is  a  mystery  to  me 
till  this  day.  Simple  as  the  reckoning  of  my  daily  trade  ought 
to  be,  by  no  chance  could  I  ever  make  it  foot  up  as  it  should. 
I  tried  honestly  every  night,  but  the  receipts  would  never  square 
with  the  expenditures,  do  what  I  might.  I  kept  them  carefully 
apart  in  different  pockets,  but  mixed  they  would  get  in  spite 
of  all.  I  had  to  call  it  square,  however  far  the  footing  was  out 
of  the  way,  or  sit  up  all  night,  which  I  would  not  do.  I  remem- 
ber well  the  only  time  I  came  out  even.  I  was  so  astonished 
that  I  would  not  believe  it,  but  had  to  go  all  over  the  account 
again.  That  night  I  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just.  The  next 
morning,  when  I  was  starting  out  on  my  route  with  a  clean 
conscience  and  a  clean  slate,  a  shopkeeper  rapped  on  his  window 


GOING  INTO  BUSINESS  449 

as  I  went  by  to  tell  me  that  I  had  given  him  the  previous  day 
a  twenty-dollar  bill  for  a  ten,  in  making  change.  After  that  I 
gave  up  trying. 

I  was  no  longer  alone.  From  Buffalo  my  old  chum  Ronne 
had  come,  hearing  that  I  was  doing  well,  to  join  me,  and  from 
Denmark  an  old  schoolfellow,  whose  life  at  twenty-two  had  been 
wrecked  by  drink  and  who  wrote  begging  to  be  allowed  to  come. 
His  mother  pleaded  for  him  too,  but  it  was  not  needed.  He 
had  enclosed  in  his  letter  the  strongest  talisman  of  all,  a  letter 
written  by  Elizabeth  in  the  long  ago  when  we  were  children 
together.  I  have  it  yet.  He  came,  and  I  tried  hard  to  break 
him  of  his  failing.  But  I  had  undertaken  a  job  that  was  too  big 
for  me.  Upon  my  return  from  a  Western  trip  I  found  that  he 
had  taken  to  drinking  again,  and  in  his  cups  had  enlisted.  His 
curse  followed  him  into  the  army.  He  rose  to  the  rank  of 
sergeant,  only  to  fall  again  and  suffer  degradation.  The  other 
day  he  shot  himself  at  the  post  where  he  was  stationed,  after 
nearly  thirty  years  of  service.  Yet  in  all  his  ups  and  downs  he 
never  forgot  his  home.  While  his  mother  lived  he  helped  sup- 
port her  in  far-off  Denmark ;  and  when  she  was  gone,  no  month 
passed  that  he  did  not  send  home  the  half  of  his  wages  for  the 
support  of  his  crippled  sister  in  the  old  town.  Charles  was  not 
bad.  He  was  a  poor,  helpless,  unhappy  boy,  who  came  to  me 
for  help,  and  I  had  none  to  give,  God  pity  him  and  me. 

The  Western  trip  I  spoke  of  was  my  undoing.  Puffed  up 
by  my  success  as  a  salesman,  I  yielded  in  an  evil  hour  to  the  blan- 
dishments of  my  manufacturers,  and  accepted  the  general  agency 
of  the  State  of  Illinois,  with  headquarters  in  Chicago.  It 
sounded  well,  but  it  did  not  work  well.  Chicago  had  not  yet 
got  upon  its  feet  after  the  great  fire ;  and  its  young  men  were 
too  sharp  for  me.  In  six  weeks  they  had  cleaned  me  out  bodily, 
had  run  away  with  my  irons  and  with  money  they  borrowed 
of  me  to  start  them  in  business.  I  returned  to  Pittsburg  as 
poor  as  ever,  to  find  that  the  agents  I  had  left  behind  in  my 
Pennsylvania  territory  had  dealt  with  me  after  the  same  fashion. 
The  firm  for  which  I  worked  had  connived  at  the  frauds.  My 
friends  had  left  me.     The  one  I  spoke  of  was  in  the  army.     Ronne 

2G 


450  BIOGRAPHY  AND  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

had  given  up  in  discouragement,  and  was  at  worlv  in  a  rolling- 
mill.     In  the  utter  wreck  of  all  my  hopes  I  was  alone  again. 

Angry  and  sore,  I  went  up  the  Alleghany  River,  with  no 
definite  purpose  in  mind  except  to  get  away  from  everybody  I 
knew.  At  Franklin  I  fell  ill  with  a  sneaking  fever.  It  was  while 
I  lay  helpless  in  a  lonely  tavern  by  the  riverside  that  the  crushing 
blow  fell.  Letters  from  home,  sent  on  from  Pittsburg,  told  me 
that  Elizabeth  was  to  be  married.  A  cavalry  officer  who  was 
in  charge  of  the  border  police,  a  dashing  fellow  and  a  good 
soldier,  had  won  her  heart.  The  wedding  was  to  be  in  the 
summer.  It  was  then  the  last  week  in  April.  At  the  thought 
I  turned  my  face  to  the  wall,  and  hoped  that  I  might  die. 

But  one  does  not  die  of  love  at  twenty-four.  The  days  that 
passed  slowly  saw  me  leave  my  sick-bed  and  limp  down  to  the 
river  on  sunny  days,  to  sit  and  watch  the  stream  listlessly  for 
hours,  hoping  nothing,  grasping  nothing,  except  that  it  was  all 
over.  In  all  my  misadventures  that  was  the  one  thing  I  had 
never  dreamed  of.  If  I  did,  I  as  quickly  banished  the  thought 
as  preposterous.  That  she  should  be  another's  bride  seemed  so 
utterly  impossible  that,  sick  and  feeble  as  I  was,  I  laughed  it  to 
scorn  even  then ;  whereat  I  fell  to  reading  the  fatal  letter  again, 
and  trying  to  grasp  its  meaning.  It  made  it  all  only  the  more 
perplexing  that  I  should  not  know  who  he  was  or  what  he  was. 
I  had  never  heard  of  him  before,  in  that  town  where  I  thought 
I  knew  every  living  soul.  That  he  must  be  a  noble  fellow  I 
knew,  or  he  could  not  have  won  her ;  but  who  —  why  —  what  - 
what  had  come  over  everything  in  such  a  short  time,  and  what 
was  this  ugly  dream  that  was  setting  my  brain  awhirl  and  shut- 
ting out  the  sunlight  and  the  day  ?  Presently  I  was  in  a  relapse, 
and  it  was  all  darkness  to  me,  and  obli^^on. 

When  at  last  I  got  well  enough  to  travel,  I  set  my  face  toward 
the  east,  and  journeyed  on  foot  through  the  northern  coal  re- 
gions of  Pennsylvania  by  slow  stages,  caring  little  whither  I 
went,  and  earning  just  enough  by  peddling  flat-irons  to  pay  my 
way.  It  was  spring  when  I  started ;  the  autumn  tints  were  on 
the  leaves  when  I  brought  up  in  New  York  at  last,  as  nearly 
restored  as  youth  and  the  long  tramp  had  power  to  do.     But  the 


GOING  INTO  BUSINESS  45 1 

restless  energy  that  had  made  of  me  a  successful  salesman  was 
gone.  I  thought  only,  if  I  thought  at  all,  of  finding  some  quiet 
place  where  I  could  sit  and  see  the  world  go  by  that  concerned 
me  no  longer.  With  a  dim  idea  of  being  sent  into  the  farthest 
wilds  as  an  operator,  I  went  to  a  business  college  on  Fourth 
Avenue  and  paid  twenty  dollars  to  learn  telegraphing.  It  was 
the  last  money  I  had.  I  attended  the  school  in  the  afternoon. 
In  the  morning  I  peddled  flat-irons,  earning  money  for  my  board, 
and  so  made  out. 

One  day,  while  I  was  so  occupied,  I  saw  among  the  "want" 
advertisements  in  a  newspaper  one  offering  the  position  of  city 
editor  on  a  Long  Island  City  weekly  to  a  competent  man.  Some- 
thing of  my  old  ambition  stirred  within  me.  It  did  not  occur 
to  me  that  city  editors  were  not  usually  obtained  by  advertising, 
still  less  that  I  was  not  competent,  having  only  the  vaguest  no- 
tions of  what  the  functions  of  a  city  editor  might  be.  I  applied 
for  the  job,  and  got  it  at  once.  Eight  dollars  a  week  was  to  be 
my  salary ;  my  job,  to  fill  the  local  coliunn  and  attend  to  the 
affairs  of  Hunter's  Point  and  Blissville  generally,  politics  ex- 
cluded. The  editor  attended  to  that.  In  twenty-four  hours  I 
was  hard  at  work  writing  up  my  then  most  ill-favored  bailiwick. 
It  is  none  too  fine  yet,  but  in  those  days,  when  every  nuisance 
crowded  out  of  New  York  found  refuge  there,  it  stunk  to  heaven. 

Certainly  I  had  entered  journalism  by  the  back  door,  very  far 
back  at  that,  when  I  joined  the  staff  of  the  Review.  Signs  of 
that  appeared  speedily,  and  multiplied  day  by  day.  On  the 
third  day  of  my  employment  I  beheld  the  editor-in-chief  being 
thrashed  down  the  street  by  an  irate  coachman  whom  he  had 
offended,  and  when,  in  a  spirit  of  loyalty,  I  would  have  cast  in 
my  lot  with  him,  I  was  held  back  by  one  of  the  printers  with  the 
laughing  comment  that  that  was  his  daily  diet  and  that  it  was 
good  for  him.  That  was  the  only  way  any  one  ever  got  any 
satisfaction  or  anything  else  out  of  him.  Judging  from  the 
goings  on  about  the  office  in  the  two  weeks  I  was  there,  he  must 
have  been  extensively  in  debt  to  all  sorts  of  people  who  were 
trying  to  collect.  When,  on  my  second  deferred  pay-day,  I  met 
him  on  the  stairs,  propelled  by  his  washer-woman,  who  brought 


452  BIOGRAPHY  AND  AUTOBIOGRAPIIV 

her  basket  down  on  l\is  liead  with  every  step  he  took,  calling  upon 
the  populace  (the  stairs  were  outside  the  buildinc;)  to  witness 
just  punishment  meted  out  to  him  for  failing  to  pay  for  the  wash- 
ing of  his  shirts,  I  rightly  concluded  that  the  city  editor's  claim 
stood  no  show.  I  left  him  owing  me  two  weeks'  pay,  but  I 
freely  forgive  liim.  I  think  I  got  my  money's  worth  of  experi- 
ence. I  did  not  let  grass  grow  under  my  feet  as  "city  editor.'' 
Hunter's  Point  had  received  for  once  a  thorough  raking  o^'er, 
and  I  my  first  lesson  in  hunting  the  elusive  item  and,  when  found, 
making  a  note  of  it. 

Except  for  a  Newfoundland  pup  which  some  one  had  given 
me,  I  went  back  over  the  river  as  poor  as  I  had  come.  The  dog 
proved  rather  a  doubtful  possession  as  the  days  went  by.  Its 
appetite  was  tremendous,  and  its  preference  for  my  society  em- 
barrassingly unrestrained.  It  would  not  be  content  to  sleep 
anywhere  else  than  in  my  room.  If  I  put  it  out  in  the  yard, 
it  forthwith  organized  a  search  for  me  in  which  the  entire  neigh- 
borhood was  compelled  to  take  part,  willy-nilly.  Its  manner 
of  doing  it  boomed  the  local  trade  in  hair-brushes  and  mantel 
bric-a-brac,  but  brought  on  complications  ^^•ith  the  landlord 
in  the  morning  that  usually  resulted  in  the  departure  of  Bob 
and  myself  for  other  pastures.  Part  with  him  I  could  not ;  for 
Bob  loved  me.  Once  I  tried,  when  it  seemed  that  there  was  no 
choice.  I  had  been  put  out  for  perhaps  the  tenth  time,  and  I 
had  no  more  money  left  to  provide  for  our  keep.  A  Wall  Street 
broker  had  advertised  for  a  watch-dog,  and  I  went  with  Bob  to 
see  him.  But  when  he  would  have  counted  the  three  gold  pieces 
he  offered  into  my  hand,  I  saw  Bob's  honest  brown  eyes  watch- 
ing me  with  a  look  of  such  faithful  affection  that  I  dropped  the 
coins  as  if  they  burned,  and  caught  him  about  the  neck  to  tell 
him  that  we  would  never  part.  Bob  put  his  huge  paws  on  my 
shoulders,  Ucked  my  face,  and  barked  such  a  joyous  bark  of 
challenge  to  the  world  in  general  that  even  the  Wall  Street  man 
was  touched. 

"I  guess  you  are  too  good  friends  to  part,"  he  said.     And  so 
we  were. 

We  left  Wall  Street  and  its  gold  behind  to  go  out  and  starve 


GOING  INTO  BUSINESS  453 

together.  Literally  we  did  that  in  the  days  that  followed.  I 
had  taken  to  peddling  books,  an  illustrated  Dickens  issued  by 
the  Harpers,  but  I  barely  earned  enough  by  it  to  keep  life  in  us 
and  a  transient  roof  over  our  heads.  I  call  it  transient  because 
it  was  rarely  the  same  two  nights  together,  for  causes  which  I 
have  explained.  In  the  day  Bob  made  out  rather  better  than  I. 
He  could  always  coax  a  supper  out  of  the  servant  at  the  base- 
ment gate  by  his  curvetings  and  tricks,  while  I  pleaded  vainly 
and  hungrily  with  the  mistress  at  the  front  door.  Dickens  was 
a  drug  in  the  market.  A  curious  fatality  had  given  me  a  copy  of 
Hard  Times  to  canvass  with.  I  think  no  amount  of  good 
fortune  could  turn  my  head  while  it  stands  in  my  bookcase. 
One  look  at  it  brings  back  too  vividly  that  day  when  Bob  and  I 
had  gone,  desperate  and  breakfastless,  from  the  last  bed  we 
might  know  for  many  days,  to  try  to  sell  it  and  so  get  the  means 
to  keep  us  for  another  twenty-four  hours. 

It  was  not  only  breakfast  we  lacked.  The  day  before  we  had 
had  only  a  crust  together.  Two  days  without  food  is  not  good 
preparation  for  a  day's  canvassing.  We  did  the  best  we  could. 
Bob  stood  by  and  wagged  his  tail  persuasively  while  I  did  the 
talking ;  but  luck  was  dead  against  us,  and  Hard  Times 
stuck  to  us  for  all  we  tried.  Evening  came  and  found  us  down 
by  the  Cooper  Institute,  with  never  a  cent.  Faint  with  hunger, 
I  sat  down  on  the  steps  under  the  illuminated  clock,  while  Bob 
stretched  himself  at  my  feet.  He  had  beguiled  the  cook  in  one 
of  the  last  houses  we  called  at,  and  his  stomach  was  filled.  From 
the  corner  I  had  looked  on  enviously.  For  me  there  was  no 
supper,  as  there  had  been  no  dinner  and  no  breakfast.  To- 
morrow there  was  another  day  of  starvation.  How  long  was 
this  to  last  ?  Was  it  any  use  to  keep  up  a  struggle  so  hopeless  ? 
From  this  very  spot  I  had  gone,  hungry  and  wrathful,  three  years 
before,  when  the  dining  Frenchmen  for  whom  I  wanted  to  fight 
thrust  me  forth  from  their  company.  Three  wasted  years ! 
Then  I  had  one  cent  in  my  pocket,  I  remembered.  To-day  I 
had  not  even  so  much.  I  was  bankrupt  in  hope  and  purpose. 
Nothing  had  gone  right;  nothing  would  ever  go  right;  and, 
worse,  I  did  not  care.     I  drummed  moodily  upon  my  book. 


454 


BIOGRAPHY  A.\D  AL'TOBIOGRAPIIY 


Wasted !  Yes,  that  was  right.  My  life  was  wasted,  utterly 
wasted. 

A  voice  hailed  me  l^y  name,  and  Bob  sat  up  looking  attentively 
at  me  for  liis  cue  as  to  the  treatment  of  the  owner  of  it.  I  recog- 
nized in  liim  the  principal  of  the  telegraph  school  where  I  had 
gone  until  my  money  gave  out.  He  seemed  suddenly  struck  by 
sometliing. 

"Why,  what  are  you  doing  here  ? "  he  asked.  I  told  him  Bob 
and  I  were  just  resting  after  a  day  of  canvassing. 

"Books  !"  he  snorted.  "I  guess  they  won't  make  you  rich. 
Now,  how  would  you  like  to  be  a  reporter,  if  you  have  got  nothing 
better  to  do  ?  The  manager  of  a  news  agency  down  town  asked 
me  to-day  to  find  him  a  bright  young  fellow  whom  he  could 
break  in.  It  isn't  much  —  ten  dollars  a  week  to  start  with. 
But  it  is  better  than  peddling  books,  I  know." 

He  poked  over  the  book  in  my  hand  and  read  the  title. 
''Hard  Times,"  he  said,  with  a  little  laugh.  " I  guess  so.  What 
do  you  say  ?  I  think  you  will  do.  Better  come  along  and  let 
me  give  you  a  note  to  liim  now." 

As  in  a  dream,  I  walked  across  the  street  with  him  to  his  office 
and  got  the  letter  which  was  to  make  me,  half-starved  and  home- 
less, rich  as  Croesus,  it  seemed  to  me.  Bob  went  along,  and  be- 
fore I  departed  from  the  school  a  better  home  than  I  could  give 
him  was  found  for  him  with  my  benefactor.  I  was  to  bring  him 
the  next  day.  I  had  to  admit  that  it  was  best  so.  That  night, 
the  last  which  Bob  and  I  spent  together,  we  walked  up  and  down 
Broadway,  where  there  was  quiet,  thinking  it  over.  What  had 
happened  had  stirred  me  profoundly.  For  the  second  time  I 
saw  a  hand  held  out  to  save  me  from  wreck  just  w^hen  it  seemed 
inevitable ;  and  I  knew  it  for  His  hand,  to  whose  will  I  was  at 
last  beginning  to  bow  in  humility  that  had  been  a  stranger  to 
me  before.  It  had  ever  been  my  own  will,  my  own  way,  upon 
which  I  insisted.  In  the  shadow  of  Grace  Church  I  bowed  my 
head  against  the  granite  wall  of  the  gray  tower  and  prayed  for 
strength  to  do  the  work  which  I  had  so  long  and  arduously  sought 
and  which  had  now  come  to  me ;  the  while  Bob  sat  and  looked  on, 
saying  clearly  enough  with  his  wagging  tail  that  he  did  not  know 


GOING  INTO  BUSINESS  455 

what  was  going  on,  but  that  he  was  sure  it  was  all  right.  Then 
we  resumed  our  wanderings.  One  thought,  and  only  one,  I 
had  room  for.  I  did  not  pursue  it ;  it  walked  with  me  wherever 
I  went:  She  was  not  married  yet.  Not  yet.  When  the  sun 
rose,  I  washed  my  face  and  hands  in  a  dog's  drinking-trough, 
pulled  my  clothes  into  such  shape  as  I  could,  and  went  with  Bob 
to  his  new  home.  That  parting  over,  I  walked  down  to  23 
Park  Row  and  delivered  my  letter  to  the  desk  editor  in  the  New 
York  News  Association,  up  on  the  top  floor. 

He  looked  me  over  a  little  doubtfully,  but  evidently  impressed 
with  the  early  hours  I  kept,  told  me  that  I  might  try.  He  waved 
me  to  a  desk,  bidding  me  wait  until  he  had  made  out  his  morning 
book  of  assignments ;  and  with  such  scant  ceremony  was  I  finally 
introduced  to  Newspaper  Row,  that  had  been  to  me  like  an 
enchanted  land.  After  twenty-seven  years  of  hard  work  in  it, 
during  which  I  have  been  behind  the  scenes  of  most  of  the  plays 
that  go  to  make  up  the  simi  of  the  life  of  the  metropolis,  it 
exercises  the  old  spell  over  me  yet.  If  my  sympathies  need 
quickening,  my  point  of  view  adjusting,  I  have  only  to  go  down  to 
Park  Row  at  eventide,  when  the  crowds  are  hurrying  homeward 
and  the  City  Hall  clock  is  lighted,  particularly  when  the  snow 
lies  on  the  grass  in  the  park,  and  stand  watching  them  awhile, 
to  find  all  things  coming  right.  It  is  Bob  who  stands  by  and 
watches  with  me  then,  as  on  that  night. 

The  assignment  that  fell  to  my  lot  when  the  book  was  made 
out,  the  first  against  which  my  name  was  written  in  a  New 
York  editor's  book,  was  a  lunch  of  some  sort  at  the  Astor  House. 
I  have  forgotten  what  was  the  special  occasion.  I  remember 
the  bearskin  hats  of  the  Old  Guard  in  it,  but  little  else.  In  a 
kind  of  haze,  I  beheld  half  the  savory  viands  of  earth  spread 
under  the  eyes  and  nostrils  of  a  man  who  had  not  tasted  food  for 
the  third  day.  I  did  not  ask  for  any.  I  had  reached  that  stage 
of  starvation  that  is  like  the  still  centre  of  a  cyclone,  when  no 
hunger  is  felt.  But  it  may  be  that  a  touch  of  it  all  crept  into  my 
report ;   for  when  the  editor  had  read  it,  he  said  briefly :  — 

"You  will  do.  Take  that  desk,  and  report  at  ten  every 
morning,  sharp." 


456  BIOGRAPHY  AND  AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

That  night,  when  I  was  dismissed  from  the  otfice,  I  went  up 
the  Bowen'  to  No.  185,  where  a  Danish  family  kept  a  boarding- 
house  up  under  the  roof.  I  had  work  and  wages  now,  and  could 
pay.  On  the  stairs  I  fell  in  a  swoon  and  lay  there  till  some  one 
stumbled  o\er  me  in  the  dark  and  carried  me  in.  My  strength 
had  at  last  given  out. 

So  began  my  life  as  a  newspaper  man. 


IV.    D.   HISTORICAL   NARRATIVE 
THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  MARY  ^ 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay 

[The  Queen]  had,  during  two  or  three  days,  been  poorly ;  and 
on  the  preceding  evening  grave  symptoms  had  appeared.  Sir 
Thomas  Millington,  who  was  physician  in  ordinary  to  the  King, 
thought  that  she  had  the  measles.  But  Radcliffe,  who,  with 
coarse  manners  and  Uttle  book  learning,  had  raised  himself  to 
the  first  practice  in  London  chiefly  by  his  rare  skill  in  diagnostics, 
uttered  the  more  alarming  words,  smallpox.  That  disease,  over 
which  science  has  since  achieved  a  succession  of  glorious  and 
beneficent  victories,  was  then  the  most  terrible  of  all  the  ministers 
of  death.  The  havoc  of  the  plague  had  been  far  more  rapid: 
but  the  plague  had  visited  our  shores  only  once  or  twice  within 
living  memory ;  and  the  smallpox  was  always  present,  filling 
the  churchyards  \vith  corpses,  tormenting  with  constant  fears 
all  whom  it  had  not  yet  stricken,  leaving  on  those  whose  lives  it 
spared  the  hideous  traces  of  its  power,  turning  the  babe  into  a 
changeling  at  which  the  mother  shuddered,  and  making  the  eyes 
and  cheeks  of  the  betrothed  maiden  objects  of  horror  to  the  lover. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  year  1694,  this  pestilence  was  more  than 
usually  severe.  At  length  the  infection  spread  to  the  palace, 
and  reached  the  young  and  blooming  Queen.  She  received  the 
intimation  of  her  danger  with  true  greatness  of  soul.  She  gave 
orders  that  every  lady  of  her  bedchamber,  every  maid  of  honor, 
nay,  every  menial  servant,  who  had  not  had  the  smallpox, 
should  instantly  leave  Kensington  House.  She  locked  herself 
up  during  a  short  time  in  her  closet,  burned  some  papers,  ar- 
ranged others,  and  then  calmly  awaited  her  fate. 

'  From  History  of  Enj^land,  Chapter  XX. 
457 


458  insroRiCA L  .v. i  rra  ti ve 

During  two  or  throe  days  there  were  many  alternations  ol 
hope  and  fear.  The  pliysicians  contracUcted  each  other  and 
themselves  in  a  way  wliich  sufficiently  indicates  the  state  of 
medical  science  in  that  age.  The  disease  was  measles:  it  was 
scarlet  fever :  it  was  sjjotted  fever :  it  was  erysipelas.  At  one 
moment  some  symptoms,  wliich  in  truth  showed  that  the  case 
was  almost  hopeless,  were  hailed  as  indications  of  returning 
health.  At  length  all  doubt  was  over.  Radcliffe's  opinion 
proved  to  be  right.  It  was  plain  that  the  Queen  was  sinking 
under  smallpox  of  the  most  malignant  type. 

All  this  time  William  remained  night  and  day  near  her  bedside. 
The  little  couch  on  which  he  slept  when  he  was  in  camp  was 
spread  for  him  in  the  antechamber :  but  he  scarcely  lay  down  on 
it.  The  sight  of  his  miser}^,  the  Dutch  Envoy  wrote,  was  enough 
to  melt  the  hardest  heart.  Nothing  seemed  to  be  left  of  the 
man  whose  serene  fortitude  had  been  the  wonder  of  old  soldiers 
on  the  disastrous  day  of  Landen,  and  of  old  sailors  through  that 
fearful  night  among  the  sheets  of  ice  and  banks  of  sand  on  the 
coast  of  Goree.  The  very  domestics  saw  the  tears  running  un- 
checked down  that  face,  of  which  the  stern  composure  had  sel- 
dom been  disturbed  by  any  triumph  or  by  any  defeat.  Several 
of  the  prelates  were  in  attendance.  The  King  drew  Burnet 
aside,  and  gave  w-ay  to  an  agony  of  grief.  "There  is  no  hope," 
he  cried.  "  I  was  the  happiest  man  on  earth  ;  and  I  am  the  most 
miserable.  She  has  no  fault ;  none :  you  know  her  well,  but 
you  could  not  know,  nobody  but  myself  could  know,  her  good- 
ness." Tenison  undertook  to  tell  her  that  she  was  dying.  He 
was  afraid  that  such  a  communication,  abruptly  made,  might 
agitate  her  violently,  and  began  with  much  management.  But 
she  soon  caught  his  meaning,  and,  with  that  gentle  womanly 
courage  which  so  often  puts  our  bravery  to  shame,  submitted 
herself  to  the  will  of  God.  She  called  for  a  small  cabinet  in  which 
her  most  important  papers  were  locked  up,  gave  orders  that,  as 
soon  as  she  was  no  more,  it  should  be  delivered  to  the  King,  and 
then  dismissed  worldly  cares  from  her  mind.  She  received  the 
Eucharist,  and  repeated  her  part  of  the  office  with  unimpaired 
memory  and  intelligence,  though  in  a  feeble  voice.     She  ob- 


THE  DEATH  OF  QUEEN  MARY  459 

served  that  Tenison  had  been  long  standing  at  her  bedside,  and, 
with  that  sweet  courtesy  which  was  habitual  to  her,  faltered 
out  her  commands  that  he  would  sit  down,  and  repeated  them 
till  he  obeyed.  After  she  had  received  the  sacrament  she  sank 
rapidly,  and  uttered  only  a  few  broken  words.  Twice  she  tried 
to  take  a  last  farewell  of  him  whom  she  had  loved  so  truly  and  en- 
tirely :  but  she  was  unable  to  speak.  He  had  a  succession  of  fits 
so  alarming  that  his  Privy  Councillors,  who  were  assembled  in  a 
neighboring  room,  were  apprehensive  for  his  reason  and  his  life. 
The  Duke  of  Leeds,  at  the  request  of  his  colleagues,  ventured  to 
assume  the  friendly  guardianship  of  which  minds  deranged  by 
sorrow  stand  in  need.  A  few  minutes  before  the  Queen  expired, 
William  was  removed,  almost  insensible,  from  the  sick  room. 

Mary  died  in  peace  with  Anne.  Before  the  physicians  had 
pronounced  the  case  hopeless,  the  Princess,  who  was  then  in 
very  delicate  health,  had  sent  a  kind  message ;  and  Mary  had 
returned  a  kind  answer.  The  Princess  then  had  proposed  to 
come  herself :  but  William  had,  in  very  gracious  terms,  declined 
the  offer.  The  excitement  of  an  interview,  he  said,  would  be 
too  much  for  both  sisters.  If  a  favorable  turn  took  place.  Her 
Royal  Highness  should  be  most  welcome  to  Kensington.  A  few 
hours  later  all  was  over. 

The  public  sorrow  was  great  and  general.  For  Mary's  blame- 
less life,  her  large  charities,  and  her  winning  manners  had  con- 
quered the  hearts  of  her  people.  When  the  Commons  next  met 
they  sate  for  a  time  in  profound  silence.  At  length  it  was  moved 
and  resolved  that  an  Address  of  Condolence  should  be  presented 
to  the  King ;  and  then  the  House  broke  up  without  proceeding  to 
other  business.  The  Dutch  Envoy  informed  the  States  General 
that  many  of  the  members  had  handkerchiefs  at  their  eyes.  The 
number  of  sad  faces  in  the  street  struck  every  observer.  The 
mourning  was  more  general  than  even  the  mourning  for  Charles 
the  Second  had  been.  On  the  Sunday  which  followed  the  Queen's 
death  her  virtues  were  celebrated  in  almost  every  parish  church 
of  the  Capital,  and  in  almost  every  great  meeting  of  nonconform- 
ists. 

The  most  estimable  Jacobites  resDected  the  sorrow  of  William 


4t»0  HISTORICAL   NARRATIVE 

and  the  memory  of  Mar\ .  Hut  to  the  licrccr  zealots  of  the  party 
neither  the  house  of  mourning  nor  the  grave  was  sacred.  At 
Bristol  the  adherents  of  Sir  John  Knight  rang  the  bells  as  if  for 
a  victory.  It  has  often  been  repeated,  and  is  not  at  all  improb- 
able, that  a  non-juring  divine,  in  the  midst  of  the  general  lamen- 
tation, preached  on  the  text,  "  Go :  see  now  this  accursed  woman 
and  bury  her:  for  she  is  a  King's  daughter."  It  is  certain  that 
some  of  the  ejected  priests  pursued  her  to  the  grave  with  invec- 
tives. Her  death,  they  said,  was  evidently  a  judgment  for  her 
crime.  God  had,  from  the  top  of  Sinai,  in  thunder  and  lightning, 
promised  length  of  days  to  children  who  should  honor  their 
parents;  and  in  this  promise  was  plainly  implied  a  menace. 
What  father  had  ever  been  worse  treated  by  his  daughters  than 
James  by  Mary  and  Anne  ?  Mary  was  gone,  cut  off  in  the  prime 
of  life,  in  the  glow  of  beauty,  in  the  lieight  of  prosperity ;  and 
Anne  would  do  well  to  profit  by  the  warning.  Wagstaffe  went 
further,  and  dwelt  much  on  certain  w^onderful  coincidences  of 
time.  James  had  been  driven  from  his  palace  and  country  in 
Christmas  week.  Mary  had  died  in  Christmas  week.  There 
could  be  no  doubt  that,  if  the  secrets  of  Providence  were  dis- 
closed to  us,  we  should  fmd  that  the  turns  of  the  daughter's  com- 
plaint in  December,  1694,  bore  an  exact  analogy  to  the  turns  of 
the  father's  fortune  in  December,  1688.  It  was  at  midnight  that 
the  father  ran  away  from  Rochester :  it  was  at  midnight  that  the 
daughter  expired.  Such  was  the  profundity  and  such  the  in- 
genuity of  a  writer  whom  the  Jacobite  schismatics  justly  re- 
garded as  one  of  their  ablest  chiefs. 

The  Whigs  soon  had  an  opportunity  of  retaliating.  They 
triumphantly  related  that  a  scrivener  in  the  Borough,  a  staunch 
friend  of  hereditary  right,  while  exulting  in  the  judgment  which 
had  overtaken  the  Queen,  had  himself  fallen  down  dead  in  a  fit. 

The  funeral  w-as  long  remembered  as  the  saddest  and  most 
august  that  Westminster  had  ever  seen.  WTiile  the  Queen's 
remains  lay  in  state  at  Whitehall,  the  neighboring  streets  were 
filled  every  day,  from  sunrise  to  sunset,  by  crowds  which  made  all 
traffic  impossible.  The  two  Houses  with  their  maces  followed 
the  hearse,  the  Lords  robed  in  scarlet  and  ermine,  the  Commons 


CAPTURE  OF  QUEBEC  46 1 

in  long  black  mantles.  No  preceding  Sovereign  had  ever  been 
attended  to  the  grave  by  a  Parliament :  for,  till  then,  the  Parlia- 
ment had  always  expired  with  the  Sovereign.  A  paper  had  in- 
deed been  circulated,  in  which  the  logic  of  a  small  sharp  petti- 
fogger was  employed  to  prove  that  writs,  issued  in  the  joint 
names  of  William  and  Mary,  ceased  to  be  of  force  as  soon  as 
William  reigned  alone.  But  this  paltry  cavil  had  completely 
failed.  It  had  not  even  been  mentioned  in  the  Lower  House,  and 
had  been  mentioned  in  the  Upper  only  to  be  contemptuously 
overruled.  The  whole  Magistracy  of  the  City  swelled  the  pro- 
cession. The  banners  of  England  and  France,  Scotland  and 
Ireland,  were  carried  by  grand  nobles  before  the  corpse.  The 
pall  was  borne  by  the  chiefs  of  the  illustrious  houses  of  Howard, 
Seymour,  Grey,  and  Stanley.  On  the  gorgeous  cofhn  of  purple 
and  gold  were  laid  the  crown  and  sceptre  of  the  realm.  The 
day  was  well  suited  to  such  a  ceremony.  The  sky  was  dark  and 
troubled ;  and  a  few  ghastly  flakes  of  snow  fell  on  the  black 
plumes  of  the  funeral  car.  Within  the  Abbey,  nave,  choir,  and 
transept  were  in  a  blaze  with  innumerable  waxlights.  The 
body  was  deposited  under  a  sumptvious  canopy  in  the  centre  of 
the  church  while  the  Primate  preached.  The  earlier  part  of 
his  discourse  was  deformed  by  pedantic  divisions  and  subdivi- 
sions :  but  towards  the  close  he  told  what  he  had  himself  seen 
and  heard  with  a  simplicity  and  earnestness  more  affecting  than 
the  most  skilful  rhetoric.  Through  the  whole  ceremony  the 
distant  booming  of  cannon  was  heard  every  minute  from  the 
batteries  of  the  Tower.  The  gentle  Queen  sleeps  among  her 
illustrious  kindred  in  the  southern  aisle  of  the  Chapel  of  Henry 
the  Seventh. 

CAPTURE  OF   QUEBEC  1 
Francis  Parkman 

Early  in  June,  General  Wolfe  sailed  up  the  St.  Lawrence  with 
a  force  of  eight  thousand  men,  and  formed  his  camp  imme- 

•  From  The  Conspiracy  of  Ponliac. 


462  HISTORICAL   XARRATIVE 

diatcly  below  Quebec,  on  the  islaiul  of  Ork'ims.  From  thence  he 
couUl  discern,  at  a  sin.ale  glance,  how  arduous  was  the  task  be- 
fore him.  Piles  of  lofty  cliffs  rose  with  sheer  ascent  on  the  north- 
ern border  of  the  river ;  and  from  their  summits  the  boasted 
citadel  of  Canada  looked  down  in  proud  security,  with  its  churches 
and  convents  of  stone,  its  ramparts,  bastions,  and  batteries; 
while  over  them  all,  from  the  brink  of  the  precipice,  Lowered  the 
massive  walls  of  the  Castle  of  St.  Louis.  Above,  for  many  a 
league,  the  bank  was  guarded  by  an  unbroken  range  of  steep 
acclivities.  Below,  the  river  St.  Charles,  flowing  into  the  St. 
Lawrence,  washed  the  base  of  the  rocky  promontory  on  which 
the  city  stood.  Lower  yet  lay  an  army  of  fourteen  thousand 
men,  under  an  able  and  renowned  commander,  the  Marquis  of 
Montcalm.  His  front  was  covered  by  intrenchments  and  batter- 
ies, which  lined  the  bank  of  the  St.  Lawrence ;  his  right  wing 
rested  on  the  city  and  the  St.  Charles ;  his  left,  on  the  cascade 
and  deep  gulf  of  Montmorenci ;  and  thick  forests  extended  along 
his  rear.  Opposite  Quebec  rose  the  high  promontory  of  Point 
Lexn ;  and  the  St.  Lawrence,  contracted  to  less  than  a  mile  in 
width,  flowed  between,  with  deep  and  powerful  current.  To  a 
chief  of  less  resolute  temper,  it  might  well  have  seemed  that  art 
and  nature  were  in  league  to  thwart  his  enterprise ;  but  a  mind 
like  that  of  Wolfe  could  only  have  seen  in  this  majestic  combina- 
tion of  forest  and  cataract,  mountain  and  river,  a  fitting  theatre 
for  the  great  drama  about  to  be  enacted  there. 

Vet  nature  did  not  seem  to  have  formed  the  young  English 
general  for  the  conduct  of  a  doubtful  and  almost  desperate  enter- 
prise. His  person  was  slight,  and  his  features  by  no  means  of 
a  martial  cast.  His  feeble  constitution  had  been  undermined  by 
years  of  protracted  and  painful  disease.  His  kind  and  genial 
disposition  seemed  better  fitted  for  the  quiet  of  domestic  life 
than  for  the  stern  duties  of  military  command ;  but  to  these 
gentler  traits  he  joined  a  high  enthusiasm,  and  an  unconquerable 
spirit  of  daring  and  endurance,  which  made  him  the  idol  of  his 
soldiers,  and  bore  his  slender  frame  through  every  hardship  and 
exp>osure. 

The  work  before  him  demanded  all  his  courage.     How  to  in- 


CAPTURE  OF  QUEBEC  463 

vest  the  city,  or  even  bring  the  army  of  Montcalm  to  action,  was 
a  problem  which  might  have  vexed  a  Hannibal.  A  French  fleet 
lay  in  the  river  above,  and  the  precipices  along  the  northern 
bank  were  guarded  at  every  accessible  point  by  sentinels  and  out- 
posts. Wolfe  would  have  crossed  the  Montmorenci  by  its  upper 
ford,  and  attacked  the  French  army  on  its  left  and  rear ;  but  the 
plan  was  thwarted  by  the  nature  of  the  ground  and  the  vigilance 
of  his  adversaries.  Thus  baffled  at  every  other  point,  he  formed 
the  bold  design  of  storming  Montcalm's  position  in  front ;  and 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  thirty-first  of  July,  a  strong  body  of  troops 
was  embarked  in  boats,  and  covered  by  a  furious  cannonade 
from  the  English  ships  and  batteries,  landed  on  the  beach  just 
above  the  mouth  of  the  Montmorenci.  The  grenadiers  and 
Royal  Americans  were  the  first  on  shore,  and  their  ill-timed 
impetuosity  proved  the  ruin  of  the  plan.  Without  waiting  to 
receive  their  orders  or  form  their  ranks,  they  ran,  pell-mell, 
across  the  level  ground,  and  with  loud  shouts  began,  each  man 
for  himself,  to  scale  the  heights  which  rose  in  front,  crested  with 
intrenchments  and  bristling  with  hostile  arms.  The  French 
at  the  top  threw  volley  after  volley  among  the  hot-headed  as- 
sailants. The  slopes  were  soon  covered  with  the  fallen ;  and  at 
that  instant  a  storm,  which  had  long  been  threatening,  burst 
with  sudden  fury,  drenched  the  combatants  on  both  sides  with  a 
deluge  of  rain,  extinguished  for  a  moment  the  fire  of  the  French, 
and  at  the  same  time  made  the  steeps  so  slippery  that  the  grena- 
diers fell  repeatedly  in  their  vain  attempts  to  climb.  Night 
was  coming  on  with  double  darkness.  The  retreat  was  sounded, 
and,  as  the  English  re-embarked,  troops  of  Indians  came  whoop- 
ing down  the  heights,  and  hovered  about  their  rear,  to  murder 
the  stragglers  and  the  wounded;  while  exulting  cries  of  Vive 
le  Roi,  from  the  crowded  summits,  proclaimed  the  triumph  of 
tLe  enemy. 

With  bitter  agony  of  mind,  Wolfe  beheld  the  headlong  folly 
of  his  men,  and  saw  more  than  four  hundred  of  the  flower  of  his 
arniy  fall  a  useless  sacrifice.  The  anxieties  of  the  siege  had  told 
severely  upon  his  slender  constitution ;  and  not  long  after  this 
disaster,  he  felt  the  first  symptoms  of  a  fever,  which  soon  confined 


464  HISTORIC  A  L   yARKATIVE 

him  to  his  couch.  Still  his  mind  never  wavered  from  its  purpose, 
and  it  was  while  lying  helpless  in  the  chamber  of  a  Canadian 
house,  where  he  had  fixed  his  headquarters,  that  he  embraced 
the  plan  of  the  enterprise  which  robbed  him  of  his  life,  and  gave 
him  immortal  fame. 

The  plan  had  been  first  proposed  during  the  height  of  Wolfe's 
illness,  at  a  council  of  his  subordinate  generals,  Monckton, 
Townshend,  and  Murray.  It  was  resolved  to  divide  the  little 
army  ;  and,  while  one  portion  remained  before  Quebec  to  alarm 
the  enemy  by  false  attacks,  and  distract  their  attention  from  the 
scene  of  actual  operation,  the  other  was  to  pass  above  the  town, 
land  under  cover  of  darkness  on  the  northern  shore,  climb  the 
guarded  heights,  gain  the  plains  above,  and  force  Montcalm 
to  quit  his  vantage-ground,  and  perhaps  to  offer  battle.  The 
scheme  was  daring  even  to  rashness ;  but  its  audacity  was  the 
secret  of  its  success. 

Early  in  September,  a  crowd  of  ships  and  transports,  under 
Admiral  Holmes,  passed  the  city  under  the  hot  fire  of  its  batter- 
ies ;  while  the  troops  designed  for  the  expedition,  amounting 
to  scarcely  five  thousand,  marched  upward  along  the  southern 
bank,  beyond  reach  of  the  cannonade.  All  were  then  embarked ; 
and  on  the  evening  of  the  twelfth,  Holmes's  fleet,  with  the  troops 
on  board,  lay  safe  at  anchor  in  the  river,  several  leagues  above 
the  town.  These  operations  had  not  failed  to  awaken  the  sus- 
picions of  Montcalm ;  and  he  had  detached  M.  Bougainville 
to  watch  the  movements  of  the  English,  and  prevent  their  land- 
ing on  the  northern  shore. 

The  eventful  night  of  the  twelfth  was  clear  and  calm,  with  no 
light  but  that  of  the  stars.  Within  two  hours  before  daybreak, 
thirty  boats,  crowded  with  sixteen  hundred  soldiers,  cast  off 
from  the  vessels,  and  floated  downward,  in  perfect  order,  with  the 
current  of  the  ebb  tide.  To  the  boundless  joy  of  the  army, 
Wolfe's  malady  had  abated,  and  he  was  able  to  command  in 
person.  His  ruined  health,  the  gloomy  prospects  of  the  siege, 
and  the  disaster  at  Montmorenci  had  oppressed  him  with  the 
deepest  melancholy,  but  never  impaired  for  a  moment  the 
promptness  of  his  decisions,  or  the  impetuous  energy  of  his  action. 


CAPTURE  OF  QUEBEC  465 

He  sat  in  the  stern  of  one  of  his  boats,  pale  and  weak,  but  borne 
up  to  a  calm  height  of  resolution.  Every  order  had  been  given, 
every  arrangement  made,  and  it  only  remained  to  face  the  issue. 
The  ebbing  tide  sufficed  to  bear  the  boats  along,  and  nothing 
broke  the  silence  of  the  night  but  the  gurgling  of  the  river,  and 
the  low  voice  of  Wolfe,  as  he  repeated  to  the  ofl&cers  about  him 
the  stanzas  of  Gray's  "Elegy  in  a  Country  Churchyard,"  which 
had  recently  appeared  and  which  he  had  just  received  from 
England.  Perhaps,  as  he  uttered  those  strangely  appropriate 
words,  — 

"  The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave," 

the  shadows  of  his  own  approaching  fate  stole  with  mournful 
prophecy  across  his  mind.  "  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  as  he  closed 
his  recital,  "I  would  rather  have  written  those  lines  than  take 
Quebec  to-morrow." 

As  they  approached  the  landing-place,  the  boats  edged  closer 
in  toward  the  northern  shore,  and  the  woody  precipices  rose 
high  on  their  left,  like  a  wall  of  undistinguished  blackness. 

''Qui  vive?^'  shouted  a  French  sentinel,  from  out  the  imper- 
vious gloom. 

"Za  France!^'  answered  a  captain  of  Eraser's  Highlanders, 
from  the  foremost  boat. 

"  A  quel  regiment  ?  "  demanded  the  soldier. 

'' De  la  Reiner''  promptly  replied  the  Highland  captain,  who 
chanced  to  know  that  the  regiment  so  designated  formed  part 
of  Bougainville's  command.  As  boats  were  frequently  passing 
down  the  river  with  supplies  for  the  garrison,  and  as  a  convoy 
from  Bougainville  was  expected  that  very  night,  the  sentinel 
was  deceived,  and  allowed  the  English  to  proceed. 

A  few  moments  after,  they  were  challenged  again,  and  this 
time  they  could  discern  the  soldier  running  close  down  to  the 
water's  edge,  as  if  all  his  suspicions  were  aroused ;  but  the  skil- 
ful replies  of  the  Highlander  once  more  saved  the  party  from 
discovery. 

They  reached  the  landing-place  in  safety  —  an  indentation  in 
the  shore,  about  a  league  above  the  city,  and  now  bearing  the 


4()6  //y^TOAVC.I/,   AAKK.irn'E 

naino  of  Wolfe's  Cove.  l\vw  a  narrow  path  led  up  the  lacr  of 
llic  heights,  and  a  French  guartl  was  posted  at  the  top  to  defentl 
the  pass.  By  the  force  of  the  current,  the  foremost  boats,  in- 
cluding that  which  carried  Wolfe  himself,  were  borne  a  little 
below  the  spot.  The  general  was  one  of  the  first  on  shore.  He 
looked  upwartl  at  the  rugged  heights  which  towered  above  him 
in  the  gloom.  "You  can  try  it,"  he  coolly  obser\ed  to  an  oflicer 
near  liim  ;  "but  I  don't  think  you'll  get  up." 

At  the  point  where  the  Highlanders  landed,  one  of  their  cap- 
tains,  Donald  MacDonald,  apparently  the  same  whose  presence 
of  mind  had  just  saved  the  enterprise  from  ruin,  was  climbing 
in  advance  of  his  men,  when  he  was  challenged  by  a  sentinel. 
He  replied  in  French,  by  declaring  that  he  had  been  sent  to  re- 
lieve the  guard,  and  ordering  the  soldier  to  withdraw.  Before 
the  latter  was  undeceived,  a  crowd  of  Highlanders  were  close  at 
hand,  while  the  steeps  below  were  thronged  with  eager  climbers, 
dragging  themselves  up  by  trees,  roots,  and  bushes.  The  guard 
turned  out,  and  made  a  brief  though  brave  resistance.  In  a 
moment,  they  were  cut  to  pieces,  dispersed,  or  made  prisoners ; 
while  men  after  men  came  swarming  up  the  height,  and  quickly 
formed  upon  the  plains  above.  Meanwhile,  the  vessels  had 
dropped  downward  with  the  current,  and  anchored  opposite  the 
landing-place.  The  remaining  troops  were  disembarked,  and, 
with  the  dawn  of  day,  the  whole  were  brought  in  safety  to  the 
shore. 

The  sun  rose,  and,  from  the  ramparts  of  Quebec,  the  astonished 
people  saw  the  Plains  of  Abraham  glittering  with  arms,  and  the 
dark-red  lines  of  English  forming  in  array  of  battle.  Breathless 
messengers  had  borne  the  evil  tidings  to  Montcalm,  and  far  and 
near  his  wide-extended  camp  resounded  with  the  rolling  of  alarm 
drums  and  the  din  of  startled  preparation.  He,  too,  had  had 
his  struggles  and  his  sorrows.  The  civil  pov/er  had  thwarted 
him ;  famine,  discontent,  and  disaffection  were  rife  among  his 
soldiers ;  and  no  small  i>ortion  of  the  Canadian  militia  had  dis- 
persed from  sheer  starvation.  In  spite  of  all,  he  had  trusted  to 
hold  out  till  the  winter  frosts  should  drive  the  invaders  from  be- 
fore the  town ;   when,  on  that  disastrous  morning,  the  news  of 


I 


CAPTURE  OF  QUEBEC  467 

their  successful  temerity  fell  like  a  cannon-shot  upon  his  ear. 
Still  he  assumed  a  tone  of  confidence.  "They  have  got  to  the 
weak  side  of  us  at  last,"  he  is  reported  to  have  said,  "and  we 
must  crush  them  with  our  numbers." 

With  headlong  haste,  his  troops  were  pouring  over  the  bridge 
of  the  St.  Charles,  and  gathering  in  heavy  masses  under  the  west- 
ern ramparts  of  the  town.  Could  numbers  give  assurance  of 
success,  their  triumphs  would  have  been  secure ;  for  five  French 
battalions  and  the  armed  colonial  peasantry  amounted  in  all  to 
more  than  seven  thousand  five  hundred  men.  Full  in  sight  be- 
fore them  stretched  the  long,  thin  lines  of  the  British  forces,  — 
the  half-wild  Highlanders,  the  steady  soldiery  of  England,  and 
the  hardy  levies  of  the  provinces,  —  less  than  five  thousand  in 
number,  but  all  inured  to  battle,  and  strong  in  the  full  assurance 
of  success.  Yet,  could  the  chiefs  of  that  gallant  army  have 
pierced  the  secrets  of  the  future,  could  they  have  foreseen  that 
the  victory  which  they  burned  to  achieve  would  have  robbed 
England  of  her  proudest  boast,  that  the  conquest  of  Canada 
would  pave  the  way  for  the  independence  of  America,  their 
swords  would  have  dropped  from  their  hands,  and  the  heroic 
fires  have  gone  out  within  their  hearts. 

It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  the  adverse  armies  stood  motionless, 
each  gazing  on  the  other.  The  clouds  hung  low,  and,  at  intervals 
warm  light  showers  descended,  besprinkling  both  alike.  The 
coppice  and  corn-fields  in  front  of  the  British  troops  were  filled 
with  sharpshooters,  who  kept  up  a  distant,  spattering  fire.  Here 
and  there  a  soldier  fell  in  the  ranks,  and  the  gap  was  filled  in 
silence. 

At  a  little  before  ten,  the  British  could  see  that  Montcalm 
was  preparing  to  advance,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  all  his  troops 
appeared  in  rapid  motion.  They  came  on  in  three  divisions, 
shouting  after  the  manner  of  their  nation,  and  firing  hea\dly  as 
soon  as  they  came  within  range.  In  the  British  ranks,  not  a 
trigger  was  pulled,  not  a  soldier  stirred ;  and  their  ominous  com- 
posure seemed  to  damp  the  spirits  of  the  assailants.  It  was  not 
till  the  French  were  within  forty  yards  that  the  fatal  word  was 
given,  and  the  British  muskets  blazed  forth  at   once  in  one 


468  HISTORIC  A  I.   .V.l  RRA  TI V  E 

crashing  explosion.  Like  a  ship  at  full  career,  arrested  with 
sudden  ruin  on  a  sunken  rock,  the  ranks  of  Montcalm  staggered, 
shi\ered.  ami  broke  before  the  wasting  storm  of  lead.  The 
smoke,  rolling  along  the  field,  for  a  moment  shut  out  the  view ; 
but  when  the  white  wreaths  were  scattered  on  the  wind,  a 
wretched  spectacle  was  disclosed ;  men  and  officers  tumbled  in 
heaps,  battalions  resolved  into  a  mob,  order  and  obedience  gone ; 
and  when  the  British  muskets  were  levelled  for  a  second  volley, 
the  masses  of  the  militia  were  seen  to  cower  and  shrink  with  un- 
controllable panic.  For  a  few  minutes,  the  French  regulars 
stood  their  ground,  returning  a  sharp  and  not  inelTectual  fire. 
But  now,  echoing  cheer  on  cheer,  redoubling  volley  on  volle\', 
trampling  the  dnng  and  the  dead,  and  driving  the  fugitives  in 
crowds,  the  British  troops  advanced  and  swept  the  fteld  before 
them.  The  ardor  of  the  men  burst  all  restraint.  They  broke 
into  a  run,  and  with  unsparing  slaughter  chased  the  flying  mul- 
titude to  the  gates  of  Quebec.  Foremost  of  all,  the  light-footed 
Highlanders  dashed  along  in  furious  pursuit,  hewing  down  the 
Frenchmen  with  their  broadswords,  and  slaying  many  in  the  very 
ditch  of  the  fortifications.  Never  was  \'ictory  more  quick  or 
more  decisive. 

In  the  short  action  and  pursuit,  the  French  lost  fifteen  hundred 
men,  killed,  wounded,  and  taken.  Of  the  remainder,  some  es- 
caped within  the  city,  and  others  fled  across  the  St.  Charles  to 
rejoin  their  comrades  who  had  been  left  to  guard  the  camp.  The 
pursuers  were  recalled  by  the  sound  of  trumpet ;  the  broken 
ranks  were  formed  afresh,  and  the  English  troops  withdrawn 
beyond  reach  of  the  cannon  of  Quebec.  BougaiuN-ille,  with  his 
corps,  arrived  from  the  upper  countn,',  and,  hovering  about  their 
rear,  threatened  an  attack  ;  but  when  he  saw  what  greeting  was 
prepared  for  him,  he  abandoned  his  purpose  and  withdrew. 
TowTishend  and  Murray,  the  only  general  officers  who  remained 
unhurt,  passed  to  the  head  of  every  regiment  in  turn,  and 
thanked  the  soldiers  for  the  bravery  they  had  shown ;  yet  the 
triumph  of  the  victors  was  mingled  with  sadness,  as  the  tidings 
went  from  rank  to  rank  that  Wolfe  had  fallen. 

In  the  heat  of  the  action,  as  he  advanced  at  the  head  of  the 


CAPTURE  OF  QUEBEC  469 

grenadiers  of  Louisburg,  a  bullet  shattered  his  wrist;  but  he 
wrapped  his  handkerchief  about  the  wound,  and  showed  no  sign 
of  pain.  A  moment  more,  and  a  ball  pierced  his  side.  Still  he 
pressed  forward,  waving  his  sword  and  cheering  his  soldiers  to 
the  attack,  when  a  third  shot  lodged  deep  within  his  breast. 
He  paused,  reeled,  and,  staggering  to  one  side,  fell  to  the  earth. 
Brown,  a  lieutenant  of  the  grenadiers,  Henderson,  a  volunteer, 
an  ofi&cer  of  artillery,  and  a  private  soldier,  raised  him  together 
in  their  arms,  and,  bearing  him  to  the  rear,  laid  him  softly  on 
the  grass.  They  asked  if  he  would  have  a  surgeon ;  but  he  shook 
his  head,  and  answered  that  all  was  over  with  him.  His  eyes 
closed  with  the  torpor  of  approaching  death,  and  those  around 
sustained  his  fainting  form.  Yet  they  could  not  withhold  their 
gaze  from  the  wild  turmoil  before  them,  and  the  charging  ranks 
of  their  companions  rushing  through  fire  and  smoke.  "See  how 
they  run,"  one  of  the  ofl&cers  exclaimed,  as  the  French  fled  in 
confusion  before  the  levelled  bayonets.  "Who  run?"  de- 
manded Wolfe,  opening  his  eyes  like  a  man  aroused  from  sleep. 
"The  enemy,  sir,"  was  the  reply ;  "  they  give  way  everywhere." 
"Then,"  said  the  dying  general,  "tell  Colonel  Burton  to  march 
Webb's  regiment  down  to  Charles  River,  to  cut  off  their  retreat 
from  the  bridge.  Now,  God  be  praised,  I  will  die  in  peace," 
he  murmured ;  and,  turning  on  his  side,  he  calmly  breathed  his 
last. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  fell  his  great  adversary,  Montcalm , 
as  he  strove,  with  vain  bravery,  to  rally  his  shattered  ranks. 
Struck  down  with  a  mortal  wound,  he  was  placed  on  a  litter  and 
borne  to  the  General  Hospital  on  the  banks  of  the  St.  Charles. 
The  surgeons  told  him  that  he  could  not  recover.  "I  am  glad 
of  it,"  was  his  calm  reply.  He  then  asked  how  long  he  might 
survive,  and  was  told  that  he  had  not  many  hours  remaining. 
"So  much  the  better,"  he  said;  "I  am  happy  that  I  shall  not 
live  to  see  the  surrender  of  Quebec."  Officers  from  the  garrison 
came  to  his  bedside  to  ask  his  orders  and  instructions.  "I  will 
give  no  more  orders,"  replied  the  defeated  soldier;  "I  have 
much  business  that  must  be  attended  to,  of  greater  moment  than 
your  ruined  garrison  and  this  wretched  country.     My  time  is 


470 


HISTORIC.  1  /.    .V.  1  A- AM  77  VE 


very  short;  therefore.  i>ray  leave  me."  The  oflkers  withdrew, 
and  none  remained  in  the  chamber  l)ut  his  confessor  and  the 
Bishop  of  Quebec.  To  the  last,  he  expressed  his  contempt  for 
his  own  mutinous  and  half-famished  troops,  and  his  admiration 
for  the  disciplined  valor  of  his  opponents.  He  died  before  mid- 
night, and  w'as  buried  at  his  own  desire  in  a  cavity  of  the  earth 
formed  by  the  bursting  of  a  bombshell. 

The  victorious  army  encamped  before  Quebec,  and  pushed 
their  preparations  for  the  siege  with  zealous  energy ;  but  before 
a  single  gun  was  brought  to  bear,  the  white  l!ag  was  hung  out, 
and  the  garrison  surrendered.  On  the  eighteenth  of  September, 
1759,  the  rock-built  citadel  of  Canada  passed  forever  from  the 
hands  of  its  ancient  masters. 


THE  BEGGARS'  LEAGUE  1 

John  T^othkop  Motley 

On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  of  April,  the  confederates  were 
assembled  at  the  Culemberg  mansion,  which  stood  on  the  square 
called  the  Sabon,  within  a  few  minutes'  walk  of  the  palace.  A 
straight  handsome  street  led  from  the  house  along  the  summit 
of  the  hill,  to  the  splendid  residence  of  the  ancient  Dukes  of  Bra- 
bant, then  the  abode  of  Duchess  Margaret.  At  a  little  before 
noon,  the  gentlemen  came  forth,  marching  on  foot,  two  by  two, 
to  the  number  of  three  hundred.  Nearly  all  were  young,  many 
of  them  bore  the  most  ancient  historical  names  of  their  country, 
every  one  was  arrayed  in  magnificent  costume.  It  was  regarded 
as  ominous,  that  the  man  who  led  the  procession,  Philip  de  Bail- 
leul,  was  lame.  The  line  was  closed  by  Brederode  and  Count 
Louis,  who  came  last,  walking  arm  in  arm.  An  immense  crowd 
was  collected  in  the  square  in  front  of  the  palace,  to  welcome  the 
men  who  were  looked  upon  as  the  deliverers  of  the  land  from 
Spanish  tyranny,  from  the  Cardinalists,  and  from  the  inquisi- 
tion.    They  were  recei\'ed  with  deafening  huzzas  and  clappings 

*  From  The  Rise  0/  the  Dutch  Republic. 


THE  BEGGARS'   LEAGUE  47 1 

of  hands  by  the  assembled  populace.  As  they  entered  the  coun- 
cil chamber,  passing  through  the  great  hall,  where  ten  years 
before  the  Emperor  had  given  away  his  crowns,  they  found  the 
Emperor's  daughter  seated  in  the  chair  of  state,  and  surrounded 
by  the  highest  personages  of  the  country.  The  emotion  of  the 
Duchess  was  evident,  as  the  procession  somewhat  abruptly  made 
its  appearance;  nor  was  her  agitation  diminished  as  she  ob- 
served among  the  petitioners  many  relatives  and  retainers  of 
the  Orange  and  Egmont  houses,  and  saw  friendly  glances  of  rec- 
ognition exchanged  between  them  and  their  chiefs. 

As  soon  as  all  had  entered  the  senate  room,  Brederode  ad- 
vanced, made  a  low  obeisance,  and  spoke  a  brief  speech.  He 
said  that  he  had  come  thither  with  his  colleagues  to  present  a 
humble  petition  to  her  Highness.  He  alluded  to  the  reports 
which  had  been  rife,  that  they  had  contemplated  tumult,  sedi- 
tion, foreign  conspiracies,  and,  what  was  more  abominable  than 
all,  a  change  of  sovereign.  He  denounced  such  statements  as 
calumnies,  begged  the  Duchess  to  name  the  men  who  had  thus 
aspersed  an  honorable  and  loyal  company,  and  called  upon  her 
to  inflict  exemplary  punishment  upon  the  slanderers.  With 
these  prefatory  remarks  he  presented  the  petition.  The  famous 
document  was  then  read  aloud.  Its  tone  was  sufficiently  loyal, 
particularly  in  the  preamble,  which  was  filled  with  protestations 
of  devotion  to  both  King  and  Duchess.  After  this  conventional 
introduction,  however,  the  petitioners  proceeded  to  state,  very 
plainly,  that  the  recent  resolutions  of  his  Majesty,  with  regard 
to  the  ecUcts  and  the  inquisition,  were  likely  to  produce  a  general 
rebellion.  They  had  hoped,  they  said,  that  a  movement  would 
be  made  by  the  seigniors  or  by  the  estates,  to  remedy  the  evil 
by  striking  at  its  cause,  but  they  had  waited  in  vain.  The  dan- 
ger, on  the  other  hand,  was  augmenting  every  day,  universal 
sedition  was  at  the  gate,  and  they  had  therefore  felt  obliged  to 
delay  no  longer,  but  come  forward  the  first  and  do  their  duty. 
They  professed  to  do  this  with  more  freedom,  because  the  danger 
touched  them  very  nearly.  They  were  the  most  exposed  to  the 
calamities  which  usually  spring  from  civil  commotions,  for  their 
houses  and  lands,  situate  in  the  open  fields,  were  exposed  to  the 


472  HISTORICAL   XAKRATIVE 

pillage  of  all  iho  world.  Mori-over  there  was  not  one  of  them, 
whatever  his  condition,  who  was  not  liable  at  any  moment  to  be 
executed  under  the  edicts,  at  the  false  complaint  of  the  first  man 
who  wished  to  obtain  his  estate,  and  who  chose  to  denounce 
him  to  the  inquisitor,  at  whose  mercy  were  the  lives  and  proj)erty 
of  all.  They  therefore  be<^,c;ed  the  Duchess  Rej^ent  to  desj)atch 
an  envoy  on  their  behalf,  who  should  humbly  implore  his  Majesty 
to  abolish  the  edicts.  In  the  meantime  they  requested  her 
Highness  to  order  a  general  surcease  of  the  inquisition,  and  of 
all  executions,  until  the  King's  further  pleasure  was  made  known, 
and  until  new  ordinances,  made  by  his  Majesty  with  advice  anri 
consent  of  the  states-general  duly  assembled,  should  be  estab- 
lished. The  petition  terminated  as  it  had  commenced,  with 
expressions  of  extreme  respect  and  devoted  loyalty. 

The  agitation  of  Duchess  Margaret  increased  very  perceptibly 
during  the  reading  of  the  paper.  When  it  was  finished,  she  re- 
mained for  a  few  minutes  quite  silent,  with  tears  rolling  down 
her  cheeks.  As  soon  as  she  could  overcome  her  excitement,  she 
uttered  a  few  words  to  the  effect  that  she  would  advise  wath  her 
councillors  and  give  the  petitioners  such  answer  as  should  be 
found  suitable.  The  confederates  then  passed  out  from  the 
council  chamber  into  the  grand  hall ;  each  individual,  as  he  took 
his  departure,  advancing  towards  the  Duchess  and  making  what 
was  called  the  "caracole,"  in  token  of  reverence.  There  was 
thus  ample  time  to  contemplate  the  whole  company,  and  to  count 
the  numbers  of  the  deputation. 

After  this  ceremony  had  been  concluded,  there  was  much 
earnest  debate  in  the  council.  The  Prince  of  Orange  addressed 
a  few  words  to  the  Duchess,  with  the  \-iew  of  calming  her  irrita- 
tion. He  observed  that  the  confederates  were  no  seditious 
rebels,  but  loyal  gentlemen,  well  born,  well  connected,  and  of 
honorable  character.  They  had  been  influenced,  he  said,  by  an 
honest  desire  to  save  their  country  from  impending  danger  — 
not  by  avarice  or  ambition.  Egmont  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
and  observed  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to  leave  the  court  for 
a  season,  in  order  to  make  a  visit  to  the  baths  of  Aix,  for  an  in- 
flammation which  he  had  in  the  leg.     It  was  then  that  Berlay- 


THE  BEGGARS'   LEAGUE 


473 


mont,  according  to  the  account  which  has  been  sanctioned  by 
nearly  every  contemporary  writer,  whether  Catholic  or  Protes- 
tant, uttered  the  gibe  which  was  destined  to  become  immortal, 
and  to  give  a  popular  name  to  the  confederacy.  ' '  What ,  Madam , ' ' 
he  is  reported  to  have  cried  in  a  passion,  "is  it  possible  that  your 
Highness  can  entertain  fears  of  these  beggars  {gueux)  ?  Is  it 
not  obvious  what  manner  of  men  they  are  ?  They  have  not  had 
wisdom  enough  to  manage  their  own  estates,  and  are  they  now 
to  teach  the  King  and  your  Highness  how  to  govern  the  country  ? 
By  the  living  God,  if  my  advice  were  taken,  their  petition  should 
have  a  cudgel  for  a  commentary,  and  we  would  make  them  go 
down  the  steps  of  the  palace  a  great  deal  faster  than  they 
mounted  them." 

The  Count  of  Meghen  was  equally  violent  in  his  language. 
Aremberg  was  for  ordering  "their  reverences,  the  confederates," 
to  quit  Brussels  without  delay.  The  conversation,  carried  on  in 
so  violent  a  key,  might  not  unnaturally  have  been  heard  by  such 
of  the  gentlemen  as  had  not  yet  left  the  grand  hall  adjoining  the 
council  chamber.  The  meeting  of  the  council  was  then  ad- 
journed for  an  hour  or  two,  to  meet  again  in  the  afternoon,  for 
the  purpose  of  deciding  deliberately  upon  the  answer  to  be  given 
to  the  Request.  Meanwhile,  many  of  the  confederates  were 
swaggering  about  the  streets,  talking  very  bravely  of  the  scene 
which  had  just  occurred,  and  it  is  probable,  boasting  not  a  little 
of  the  effect  which  their  demonstration  would  produce.  As  they 
passed  by  the  house  of  Berlaymont,  that  nobleman,  standing  at 
his  window  in  company  with  Count  Aremberg,  is  said  to  have 
repeated  his  jest.  "There  go  our  fine  beggars  again,"  said  he. 
"Look,  I  pray  you,  with  what  bravado  they  are  passing  before 
us!"  .  .  . 

The  next  important  step  in  Brederode's  eyes  was  a  dinner. 
He  accordingly  invited  the  confederates  to  a  magnificent  repast 
which  he  had  ordered  to  be  prepared  in  the  Culemberg  mansion. 
Three  hundred  guests  sat  down,  upon  the  eighth  of  April,  to  this 
luxurious  banquet,  which  was  destined  to  become  historical. 

The  board  glittered  with  silver  and  gold.  The  wine  circulated 
with  more  than  its  usual  rapidity  among  the  band  of  noble 


474  HISTORICAL   XARKATIVK 

Hacchanals,  who  were  never  weary  of  drinkinp;  the  healths  of 
Brcderodc.  of  Orange,  and  of  Kp;mont.  It  was  thought  that  the 
occasion  imperiously  demanded  an  extraordinary  carouse,  and 
the  political  events  of  the  j>ast  three  days  lent  an  additional  ex- 
citement to  the  wine.  There  was  an  earnest  discussion  as  to  an 
appropriate  name  to  be  given  to  their  confederacy.  Should 
they  call  themselves  the  ''Society  of  Concord,"  the  restorers  of 
lost  liberty,  or  by  what  other  attractive  title  should  the  league 
be  baptized  ?  Brederode  was,  however,  already  prepared  to 
settle  the  question.  He  knew  the  value  of  a  popular  and  origi- 
nal name ;  he  possessed  the  instinct  by  which  adroit  partisans 
in  e\ery  age  have  been  accustomed  to  convert  the  reproachful 
epithets  of  their  opponents  into  watchwords  of  honor,  and  he 
had  already  made  his  preparations  for  a  startling  theatrical  ef- 
fect. Suddenly,  amid  the  din  of  voices,  he  arose,  with  all  his 
rhetorical  powers  at  command.  He  recounted  to  the  company 
the  observations  which  the  Seigneur  de  Bcrlaymont  was  re- 
ported to  have  made  to  the  Duchess,  upon  the  presentation  of  the 
Request,  and  the  name  which  he  had  thought  fit  to  apply  to 
them  collectively.  Most  of  the  gentlemen  then  heard  the  mem- 
orable sarcasm  for  the  first  time.  Great  was  the  indignation 
of  all  that  the  state  councillor  should  have  dared  to  stigmatize 
as  beggars  a  band  of  gentlemen  with  the  best  blood  of  the  land 
in  their  veins.  Brederode,  on  the  contrary,  smoothing  their 
anger,  assured  them  with  good  humor  that  nothing  could  be  more 
fortunate.  "They  call  us  beggars  ! "  said  he ;  "let  us  accept  the 
name.  We  will  contend  with  the  inquisition,  but  remain  loyal 
to  the  King,  even  till  compelled  to  wear  the  beggar's  sack." 

He  then  beckoned  to  one  of  the  pages,  who  brought  him  a 
leathern  wallet,  such  as  was  worn  at  that  day  by  professional 
mendicants,  together  with  a  large  wooden  bowl,  which  also 
formed  part  of  their  regular  appurtenances.  Brederode  imme- 
diately hung  the  wallet  around  his  neck,  filled  the  bowl  with  wine, 
and  drained  it  at  a  draught.  "Long  live  the  beggars  !"  he  cried, 
a'^  he  wiped  his  beard  and  set  the  bowl  down.  "\'ivent  les 
gueulx.''  Then  for  the  first  time,  from  the  lips  of  those  reckless 
nobles  rose  the  famous  cry,  which  was  so  often  to  ring  over  land 


THE  BEGGARS'  LEAGUE 


475 


and  sea,  amid  blazing  cities,  on  blood-stained  decks,  through  the 
smoke  and  carnage  of  many  a  stricken  field.  The  humor  of 
Brederode  was  hailed  with  deafening  shouts  of  applause.  The 
Count  then  threw  the  wallet  around  the  neck  of  his  nearest 
neighbor,  and  handed  him  the  wooden  bowl.  Each  guest,  in 
turn,  donned  the  mendicant's  knapsack.  Pushing  aside  his 
golden  goblet,  each  filled  the  beggar's  bowl  to  the  brim,  and 
drained  it  to  the  beggars'  health.  Roars  of  laughter  and  shouts 
of  "Vivent  les  guculx^'  shook  the  walls  of  the  stately  mansion, 
as  they  were  doomed  never  to  shake  again.  The  shibboleth  was 
invented.  The  conjuration  which  they  had  been  anxiously 
seeking  was  found.  Their  enemies  had  provided  them  with  a 
spell,  which  was  to  prove,  in  after  days,  potent  enough  to  start 
a  spirit  from  palace  or  hovel,  forest  or  wave,  as  the  deeds  of 
the  "wild  beggars,"  the  "wood  beggars,"  and  the  "beggars  of 
the  sea"  taught  Philip  at  last  to  understand  the  nation  which 
he  had  driven  to  madness. 


rV'.    E.    ELEMENTS   OF   STORY    WRITING 

/.    Incident 

JENNY  AT  THE  PUMP  i 

George  Borrow 

"Young  gentleman,"  said  the  huge  fat  landlord,  "you  are 
come  at  the  right  time ;  dinner  vdl\  be  taken  up  in  a  few  minutes, 
and  such  a  dinner,"  he  continued,  rubbing  his  hands,  "as  you 
will  not  see  every  day  in  these  times." 

"I  am  hot  and  dusty,"  said  I,  "and  should  wish  to  cool  my 
hands  and  face.  ' 

"Jenny  !"  said  the  huge  landlord,  with  the  utmost  gravity, 
"show  the  gentleman  into  number  seven,  that  he  may  wash  his 
hands  and  face." 

"By  no  means,"  said  I,  "I  am  a  person  of  primitive  habits, 
and  there  is  nothing  like  the  pump  in  weather  like  this." 

"Jenny  ! "  said  the  landlord,  mth  the  same  gra\dty  as  before, 
"go  with  the  young  gentleman  to  the  pump  in  the  back  kitchen, 
and  take  a  clean  towel  along  with  you." 

Thereupon  the  rosy-faced  clean-looking  damsel  went  to  a 
drawer,  and  producing  a  large,  thick,  but  snowy- white  towel, 
she  nodded  to  me  to  follow  her;  whereupon  I  followed  Jenny 
through  a  long  passage  into  the  back  kitchen. 

And  at  the  end  of  the  back  kitchen  there  stood  a  pump  ;  and 
going  to  it  I  placed  my  hands  beneath  the  spout,  and  said, 
"  Pump,  Jenny  "  ;  and  Jenny  incontinently,  without  laying  down 
the  towel,  pumped  with  one  hand,  and  I  washed  and  cooled 
m\'  heated  hands. 

•  From  Lavengro. 
476 


DENRY  AT   THE  DANCE  477 

And,  when  my  hands  were  washed  and  cooled,  I  took  off  my 
neckcloth,  and  unbuttoning  my  shirt  collar,  I  placed  my  head 
beneath  the  spout  of  the  pump,  and  I  said  unto  Jenny,  "Now, 
Jenny,  lay  down  the  towel,  and  pump  for  your  life." 

Thereupon  Jenny,  placing  the  towel  on  a  linen-horse,  took 
the  handle  of  the  pump  with  both  hands  and  pumped  over  my 
head  as  handmaid  had  never  pumped  before ;  so  that  the  water 
poured  in  torrents  from  my  head,  my  face,  and  my  hair,  down 
upon  the  brick  floor. 

And  after  the  lapse  of  somewhat  more  than  a  minute,  I  called 
out  with  a  half-strangled  voice,  "Hold,  Jenny!"  and  Jenny 
desisted.  I  stood  for  a  few  moments  to  recover  my  breath, 
then  taking  the  towel  which  Jenny  proffered,  I  dried  com- 
posedly my  hands  and  head,  my  face  and  hair ;  then,  returning 
the  cowel  to  Jenny,  I  gave  a  deep  sigh  and  said,  "Surely,  this 
is  one  of  the  pleasantest  moments  of  life." 

DENRY  AT  THE   DANCE  1 

Arnold  Bennett 

The  Countess  was  late ;  some  trouble  with  a  horse.  Happily 
the  Earl  had  been  in  Bursley  all  day  and  had  dressed  at  the 
Conservative  Club ;  and  his  lordship  had  ordered  that  the 
programme  of  dances  should  be  begun.  Denry  learned  this  as 
soon  as  he  emerged,  effulgent,  from  the  gentlemen's  cloak-room 
into  the  broad  red-carpeted  corridor  which  runs  from  end  to 
end  of  the  ground  floor  of  the  Town  Hall.  Many  important 
townspeople  were  chatting  in  the  corridor  —  the  innumerable 
Sweetnam  family,  the  Stanways,  the  great  Etches,  the  Fearnses, 
Mrs.  Clayton  Vernon,  the  Buttons,  including  Beatrice  Sutton. 
Of  course  everybody  knew  him  for  Duncalf's  shorthand  clerk 
and  the  son  of  the  incomparable  flannel-washer ;  but  universal 
white  kid  gloves  constitute  a  democracy,  and  Sillitoe  could  put 
more  style  into  a  suit  than  any  other  tailor  in  the  Five  Towns. 

^  From  Denry  the  Audacious.  E.  P.  Button  and  Company.  Reprinted  by  per- 
mission of  the  author. 


478  ELEMENTS  OF  STOKV    l\  RITIXG 

"How  do?"  iho  eldest  of  the  Swcetnam  boys  nodded  care- 
lessly. 

"How  do,  Sweetnam?"   said  Dcnry  with  equal  carelessness. 

The  thing  was  accomplished  !  That  greeting  was  like  a 
masonic  initiation,  and  henceforward  he  was  the  peer  of  no 
matter  whom.  At  first  he  had  thought  that  four  hundred  eyes 
would  be  fastened  on  him,  their  glance  saving:  "This  youth  is 
wearing  a  dress-suit  for  the  first  time,  and  it  is  not  paid  for, 
either  I"  But  it  was  not  so.  And  the  reason  was  that  the 
entire  population  of  the  Town  Hall  was  heartily  engaged  in 
pretending  that  never  in  its  life  had  it  been  seen  after  seven 
o'clock  of  a  night  apart  from  a  dress-suit.  Denry  observed  with 
joy  that,  while  numerous  middle-aged  and  awkward  men  wore 
red  or  white  silk  handkerchiefs  in  their  waistcoats,  such  people 
as  Charles  Fearns,  the  Sweetnams,  and  Harold  Etches  did  not. 
He  was,  then,  in  the  shyness  of  his  handkerchief,  on  the  side  of 
the  angels. 

He  passed  up  the  double  staircase  (decorated  with  white  or 
pale  frocks  of  unparalleled  richness)  and  so  into  the  grand  hall. 
A  scarlet  orchestra  was  on  the  platform,  and  many  people 
strolled  about  the  floor  in  attitudes  of  expectation.  The  walls 
were  festooned  with  flowers.  The  thrill  of  being  magnificent 
seized  him,  and  he  was  drenched  in  a  vast  desire  to  be  truly 
magnificent  himself.  He  dreamt  of  magnificence ;  boot-brushes 
kept  sticking  out  of  this  dream  Uke  black  mud  out  of  snow.  In 
his  reverie  he  looked  about  for  Ruth  Earp,  but  she  was  in- 
visible. Then  he  went  down-stairs  again,  idly;  gorgeously 
feigning  that  he  spent  six  evenings  a  week  in  ascending  and 
descending  monumental  staircases,  appropriately  clad.  He  was 
determined  to  be  as  sublime  as  any  one. 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  corridor,  and  the  sublimest  consented 
to  be  excited. 

The  Countess  was  announced  to  be  imminent.  Everybody 
was  grouped  round  the  main  portal,  careless  of  temperatures. 
Six  times  was  the  Countess  announced  to  be  imminent  before 
she  actually  appeared,  expanding  from  the  narrow  gloom  of  her 
black  carriage  like  a  magic  vision.     Aldermen  received  her,  and 


DENRY  AT   THE  DANCE 


479 


they  did  not  do  it  with  any  excess  of  gracefulness.  They  seemed 
afraid  of  her,  as  though  she  was  recovering  from  influenza  and 
they  feared  to  catch  it.  She  had  precisely  the  same  high  voice, 
and  precisely  the  same  efficient  smile  as  she  had  employed  to 
Denry,  and  these  instruments  worked  marvels  on  Aldermen ; 
they  were  as  melting  as  salt  on  snow.  The  Countess  disap- 
peared upstairs  in  a  cloud  of  shrill  apologies  and  trailing  Alder- 
men. She  seemed  to  have  greeted  everybody  except  Denry. 
Somehow  he  was  relieved  that  she  had  not  drawn  attention  tc 
him.  He  lingered,  hesitating,  and  then  he  saw  a  being  in  a  long 
yellow  overcoat,  with  a  bit  of  peacock's  feather  at  the  summit 
of  a  shiny  high  hat.  This  being  held  a  lady's  fur  mantle.  Their 
eyes  met.     Denry  had  to  decide  instantly.     He  decided. 

"Hello,  Jock!"  he  said. 

"Hello,  Denry  !"   said  the  other,  pleased. 

"What's  been  happening?"   Denry  inquired,  friendly. 

Then  Jock  told  him  about  the  antics  of  one  of  the  Countess's 
horses. 

He  went  upstairs  again,  and  met  Ruth  Earp  coming  down. 
She  was  glorious  in  white.  Except  that  nothing  glittered  in  her 
hair,  she  looked  the  very  equal  of  the  Countess,  at  a  little 
distance,  plain  though  her  features  were. 

"What  about  that  waltz ? "   Denry  began,  informally. 

"That  waltz  is  nearly  over,"  said  Ruth  Earp,  with  chilliness. 
"I  suppose  you've  been  staring  at  her  ladyship  with  all  the  other 


men 


I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  know  the  waltz 
was  — " 

"Well,  why  didn't  you  look  at  your  programme?" 

"Haven't  got  one,"  he  said  naively. 

He  had  omitted  to  take  a  programme.     Ninny  !     Barbarian  ! 

"Better  get  one,"  she  said,  cuttingly,  somewhat  in  her  role 
of  dancing  mistress. 

"Can't  we  finish  the  waltz?"   he  suggested,  crestfallen. 

"No  !"  she  said,  and  continued  her  solitary  way  downwards. 

She  was  hurt.  He  tried  to  think  of  something  to  say  that 
was  equal  to  the  situation,  and  equal  to  the  style  of  his  suit. 


48o  ELEMENTS  OF  STORY    WRITLXG 

But  he  could  not.     In  a   moment   he  heard   her,   below   him 
greeting  some  male  acciuaintance  in  the  most  elTusive  way. 

Vet.  it  Henry  had  iu)t  committed  a  wicked  crime  for  her,  she 
could  never  have  come  to  the  (hmce  at  all  ! 

He  got  a  programme,  and  with  terror  grii)ping  his  heart  he 
asked  sundry  young  and  middle-aged  women  whom  he  knew 
by  sight  and  by  name  for  a  dance.  (Ruth  had  taught  him  how 
to  ask.)  Not  one  of  them  had  a  dance  left.  Several  looked  at 
him  as  much  as  to  say :  "You  must  be  a  goose  to  suppose  that 
my  programme  is  not  filled  up  in  the  twinkling  of  my  eye  !" 

Then  he  joined  a  group  of  despisers  of  dancing  near  the  main 
door.  Harold  Etches  was  there,  the  wealthiest  manufacturer 
of  his  years  (barely  twenty-four)  in  the  Five  Towns.  Also 
Sillitoe,  cause  of  another  of  Denry's  wicked  crimes.  The  group 
was  taciturn,  critical,  and  very  doggish. 

The  group  observed  that  the  Countess  was  not  dancing. 
The  Earl  was  dancing  (need  it  be  said  with  IMrs.  Jos.  Curtenly, 
second  wife  of  the  Deputy  Mayor?),  but  the  Countess  stood 
resolutely  smiling,  surrounded  by  Aldermen.  Possibly  she  was 
getting  her  breath ;  possibly  nobody  had  had  the  pluck  to  ask 
her.  Anyhow  she  seemed  to  be  stranded  there,  on  a  beach  of 
Aldermen.  Very  wisely  she  had  brought  with  her  no  members 
of  a  house-party  from  Sneyd  Hall.  Members  of  a  house-party, 
at  a  municipal  ball,  invariably  operate  as  a  bar  between  great- 
ness and  democracy;  and  the  Countess  desired  to  participate 
in  the  life  of  the  people. 

"Why  don't  some  of  the  Johnnies  ask  her?"  Denry  burst 
out.  He  had  hitherto  said  nothing  in  the  group,  and  he  felt 
that  he  must  be  a  man  with  the  rest  of  them. 

"Well,  you  go  and  do  it.     It's  a  free  country,"  said  Sillitoe. 

"So  I  would,  for  two  pins  !"   said  Denry. 

Harold  Etches  glanced  at  him,  apparently  resentful  of  his 
presence  there.  Harold  Etches  was  determined  to  put  the 
extinguisher  on  him. 

"I'll  bet  you  a  fiver  you  don't,"  said  Etches,  scornfully. 

"I'll  take  you,"  said  Denry  very  quickly,  and  very  quickly 
walked  off. 


DENRY  AT   THE  DANCE  48 1 

"She  can't  eat  me.     She  can't  eat  me  !" 

This  was  what  he  said  to  himself  as  he  crossed  the  floor. 
People  seemed  to  make  a  lane  for  him,  divining  his  incredible 
intention.  If  he  had  not  started  at  once,  if  his  legs  had  not 
started  of  themselves,  he  would  never  have  started ;  and,  not 
being  in  command  of  a  fiver,  he  would  afterwards  have  cut  a 
preposterous  figure  in  the  group.  But  started  he  was,  like  a 
piece  of  clock-work  that  could  not  be  stopped  !  In  the  grand 
crisis  of  his  life  something  not  himself,  something  more  powerful 
than  himself,  jumped  up  in  him  and  forced  him  to  do  things. 
Now  for  the  first  time  he  seemed  to  understand  what  had  oc- 
curred within  him  in  previous  crises. 

In  a  second  —  so  it  appeared  —  he  had  reached  the  countess. 
Just  behind  her  was  his  employer,  Mr.  Duncalf,  whom  Denry 
had  not  previously  noticed  there.  Denry  regretted  this,  for  he 
had  never  mentioned  to  Mr.  Duncalf  that  he  was  coming  to  the 
ball,  and  he  feared  Mr.  Duncalf. 

"Could  I  have  this  dance  with  you?"  he  demanded  bluntly, 
but  smiling  and  showing  his  teeth. 

No  ceremonial  title  !  No  mention  of  "pleasure"  or  "honor." 
Not  a  trace  of  the  formula  in  which  Ruth  Earp  had  instructed 
him  !     He  forgot  all  such  trivialities. 

("I've  won  that  fiver,  Mr.  Harold  Etches,"  he  said  to  him- 
self.) 

The  mouths  of  Aldermen  inadvertently  opened.  Mr.  Dun- 
calf blenched. 

"It's  nearly  over,  isn't  it  ?"  said  the  Countess,  still  efficiently 
smiUng.  She  did  not  recognize  Denry.  In  that  suit  he  might 
have  been  a  Foreign  Office  attache. 

"Oh  !   that  doesn't  matter,  I'm  sure  !"   said  Denry. 

She  yielded,  and  he  took  the  paradisiacal  creature  in  his 
arms.  It  was  her  business  that  evening  to  be  universally  and 
inclusively  polite.  A  refusal  might  have  dried  up  all  other  in- 
vitations whatsoever.  Besides,  she  was  young,  though  a 
Countess,  and  adored  dancing. 

Thus  they  waltzed  together,  while  the  flower  of  Bursley's 
chivalry  gazed  in  enchantment.     The  Countess's  fan,  depend- 

21 


48 2  ELEMENTS  OF  STORY   WRITING 

ing  from  her  arm,  dangled  against  Denry's  suit  in  a  rather  con- 
tusing fashion  which  withdrew  his  attention  from  his  feet.  He 
laid  hold  of  it  gingerly  between  two  unemployed  lingers.  After 
that  he  managed  fairly  well.  Once  they  came  perilcjusly  near 
the  Earl  and  his  partner ;  nothing  else.  And  then  the  dance 
ended,  exactly  when  Denry  had  begun  to  savor  the  astounding 
spectacle  of  himself  enclasping  the  Countess. 

The  Countess  had  soon  perceived  that  he  was  the  merest  boy. 

'*  Vou  waltz  cjuite  nicely  !"  she  said,  like  an  aunt,  but  with 
more  than  an  aunt's  smile. 

"Do  I?"  he  beamed.  Then  something  compelled  him  to 
say  :  "  Do  you  know,  it's  the  first  time  I've  ever  waltzed  in  my 
life,  except  in  a  lesson,  you  know?" 

"Really!"  she  murmured.  "You  pick  things  up  easily,  I 
suppose?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.     "Do  you?" 

Either  the  question  or  the  tone  sent  the  Countess  off  into 
carillons  of  amusement.  Everybody  could  see  that  Denry  had 
made  the  Countess  laugh  tremendously.  It  was  on  this  note 
that  the  waltz  finished.  She  was  still  laughing  when  he  bowed 
to  her  (as  taught  by  Ruth  Earp).  He  could  not  comprehend 
why  she  had  so  laughed,  save  on  the  supposition  that  he  was  more 
humorous  than  he  had  suspected.  Anyhow  he  laughed  too,  and 
they  parted  laughing.  He  remembered  that  he  had  made  a 
marked  effect  (though  not  one  of  laughter)  on  the  tailor  by 
quickly  returning  the  question,  "Are  you?"  and  his  unpre- 
meditated stroke  with  the  Countess  was  similar.  When  he  had 
got  ten  yards  on  his  way  towards  Harold  Etches  and  a  fiver  he 
felt  something  in  his  hand.  The  Countess's  fan  was  sticking 
between  his  fingers.  It  had  unhooked  itself  from  her  chain. 
He  furtively  pocketed  it. 

"Just  the  same  as  dancing  with  any  other  woman!"  —  he 
told  this  untruth  in  reply  to  a  question  from  Sillitoe.  It  was 
the  least  he  could  do.  And  any  other  young  man  in  his  place 
would  have  said  as  much  or  as  little. 

"What  was  she  laughing  at  ?"   somebody  else  asked. 

"Ah  !"  said  Denry  judiciously,  "wouldn't  you  like  to  know  ?  " 


DENRY  AT   THE  DANCE  483 

"Here  you  are!"  said  Etches,  with  an  unattentive,  pluto- 
cratic gesture  handing  over  a  five-pound  note.  He  was  one  of 
those  men  who  never  venture  out  of  sight  of  a  bank  without  a 
banknote  in  their  pockets  —  "because  you  never  know  what 
may  turn  up." 

Denry  accepted  the  note  with  a  silent  nod.  In  some  directions 
he  was  gifted  with  astounding  insight.  And  he  could  read  in 
the  faces  of  the  haughty  males  surrounding  him  that  in  the 
space  of  a  few  minutes  he  had  risen  from  nonentity  into  renown. 
He  had  become  a  great  man.  He  did  not  at  once  realize  how 
great,  how  renowned.  But  he  saw  enough  in  those  eyes  to 
cause  his  heart  to  glow,  and  to  rouse  in  his  brain  those  am- 
bitious dreams  which  stirred  him  upon  occasion.  He  left  the 
group ;  he  had  need  of  motion,  and  also  of  that  mental  privacy 
which  one  may  enjoy  while  strolling  about  on  a  crowded  floor 
in  the  midst  of  a  considerable  noise.  He  noticed  that  the 
Countess  was  now  dancing  with  an  Alderman,  and  that  the 
Alderman,  by  an  oversight  inexcusable  in  an  Alderman,  was  not 
wearing  gloves.  It  was  he,  Denry,  who  had  broken  the  ice  so 
that  the  Aldermen  might  plunge  into  the  water  !  He  had  first 
danced  with  the  Countess  and  had  rendered  her  up  to  the  Alder- 
men with  delicious  gaiety  upon  her  countenance.  By  instinct 
he  knew  Bursley  and  he  knew  that  he  would  be  talked  of.  He 
knew  that,  for  a  time  at  any  rate,  he  would  displace  even  Jos. 
Curtenly,  that  almost  professional  "card"  and  amuser  of 
burgesses,  in  the  popular  imagination.  It  would  not  be : 
"Have  ye  heard  Jos.'s  latest  ?"  It  would  be  :  "Have  ye  heard 
about  young  Machin,  Duncalf's  clerk?" 

Then  he  met  Ruth  Earp,  strolling  in  the  opposite  direction 
with  a  young  girl,  one  of  her  pupils,  of  whom  all  he  knew  was 
that  her  name  was  Nellie,  and  that  this  was  her  first  ball :  a 
childish  little  thing  with  a  wistful  face.  He  could  not  decide 
whether  to  look  at  Ruth  or  to  avoid  her  glance.  She  settled 
the  point  by  smiling  at  him  in  a  manner  that  could  not  be 
ignored. 

"Are  you  going  to  make  it  up  to  me  for  that  waltz 
you  missed?"    said  Ruth  Earp.     She  pretended  to  be  vexed 


484  ELE\fEXTS  OF  STORY    U  RITIXG 

and  stern  but  hi'  knew  that  sin-  was  not.  "  Or  is  vour  programme 
full?"  shoachkd. 

"I  should  like  to,"  he  said  simply. 

"But  perhaps  you  don't  care  to  dance  with  us  poor  ordinary 
people,  now  you've  danced  with  the  Countess  !"  she  said,  with 
a  cerUiin  lofty  and  bitter  pride. 

He  perceived  that  his  tone  had  lacked  ean;erness. 

"Don't  talk  like  that,"  he  said,  as  if  hurt. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "you  can  have  the  supper  dance." 

"Why  I"  he  said,  "there's  a  name  down  here  for  the  supper 
dance.     'Herbert'  it  looks  like." 

"Oh!"  she  replied  carelessly,  "that's  nothing.  Cross  it 
out." 

So  he  crossed  Herbert  out. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  Nellie  here  for  a  dance  ?  "  said  RuthEarp. 

And  Nellie  blushed.  He  gathered  that  the  possible  honor  of 
dancing  with  the  supremely  great  man  had  surpassed  Nellie's 
modest  expectations. 

"Can  I  have  the  next  one?"   he  said. 

"Oh,  yes  !"   Nellie  timidly  whispered. 

"It's  a  polka,  and  you  aren't  very  good  at  polking,  you 
know,"  Ruth  warned  him.     "  Still,  Nellie  will  pull  you  through." 

Nellie  laughed,  in  silver.  The  naive  child  thought  that  Ruth 
was  trying  to  joke  at  Denry's  expense.  Her  very  manifest  joy 
and  pride  in  being  seen  with  the  unique  Mr.  Machin,  in  being 
the  next  after  the  Countess  to  dance  with  him,  made  another 
mirror  in  which  Denry  could  discern  the  reflection  of  his  vast 
importance 

At  the  supper,  which  was  worthy  of  the  hospitable  traditions 
of  the  Chell  family  (though  served  standing-up  in  the  police- 
court),  he  learnt  all  the  gossip  of  the  dance  from  Ruth  Earp ; 
amongst  other  things  that  more  than  one  young  man  had  asked 
the  Countess  for  a  dance,  and  had  been  refused,  though  Ruth 
Earp  for  her  part  declined  to  believe  that  Aldermen  and  Coun- 
cillors had  utterly  absorbed  the  Countess's  programme.  Ruth 
hinted  that  the  Countess  was  keeping  a  second  dance  open  for 
him,  Denry.     When  she  asked  him  squarely  if  he  meant  to 


DENRY  AT  THE  DANCE  485 

request  another  from  the  Countess,  he  said,  No,  positively. 
He  knew  when  to  let  well  alone,  a  knowledge  which  is  more 
precious  than  a  knowledge  of  geography.  The  supper  was  the 
summit  of  Denry's  triumph.  The  best  people  spoke  to  him 
without  being  introduced.  And  lovely  creatures  mysteriously 
and  intoxicatingly  discovered  that  programmes  which  had  been 
crammed  two  hours  before  were  not  after  all  quite,  quite  full. 

"Do  tell  us  what  the  Countess  was  laughing  at?"  This 
question  was  shot  at  him  at  least  thirty  times.  He  always 
said  he  would  not  tell.  And  one  girl  who  had  danced  with  Mr. 
Stanway,  who  had  danced  with  the  Countess,  said  that  Mr. 
Stanway  had  said  that  the  Countess  would  not  tell,  either. 
Proof,  here,  that  he  was  being  extensively  talked  about ! 

Toward  the  end  of  the  festivity  the  rumor  floated  abroad 
that  the  Countess  had  lost  her  fan.  The  rumor  reached  Denry, 
who  maintained  a  culpable  silence.  But  when  all  was  over, 
and  the  Countess  was  departing,  he  rushed  down  after  her,  and 
in  a  dramatic  fashion  which  demonstrated  his  genius  for  the 
effective,  he  caught  her  exactly  as  she  was  getting  into  her 
carriage. 

"I've  just  picked  it  up,"  he  said,  pushing  through  the  crowd 
of  worshippers. 

"Oh!  thank  you  so  much!"  she  said.  And  the  Earl  also 
thanked  Denry.  And  then  the  Countess,  leaning  from  the 
carriage,  said  with  archness  in  her  efficient  smile:  "You  do 
pick  things  up  easily,  don't  you?" 

And  both  Denry  and  the  Countess  laughed  without  restraint, 
and  the  pillars  of  Bursley  society  were  mystified. 

Denry  winked  at  Jock  as  the  horses  pawed  away.  And  Jock 
winked  back. 

The  envied  of  all,  Denry  walked  home,  thinking  violently. 
At  a  stroke  he  had  become  possessed  of  more  than  he  could 
earn  from  Duncalf  in  a  month.  The  faces  of  the  Countess,  of 
Ruth  Earp,  and  of  the  timid  Nellie  mingled  in  exquisite  hallu- 
cinations before  his  tired  eyes.     He  was  inexpressibly  happy. 


486  ELEMEMS  OF  STOKV   WKIJ/Xa 

THE  PURSUIT  OF  THE  OUTLAW  ^ 

Fr.\nk  Nokris 

Dyke  thundered  acruss  ihe  railway  tracks  by  the  depot  at 
Guadalajara  not  five  minutes  ahead  of  his  pursuers.  Luck 
seemed  to  have  deserted  him.  The  station,  usually  su  quiet, 
was  now  occupied  by  the  crew  of  a  freight  train  that  lay  on  the 
down  track ;  wliile  on  the  up  line,  near  at  hand  and  headed  in 
the  same  direction,  was  a  detached  locomotive,  whose  engineer 
and  fireman  recognized  him,  he  was  sure,  as  the  buckskin  leaped 
across  the  rails. 

He  had  had  no  time  to  formulate  a  plan  since  that  morning, 
when,  tortured  with  thirst,  he  had  ventured  near  the  spring  at 
the  headwaters  of  Broderson  Creek,  on  Quien  Sabe,  and  had 
all  but  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  posse  that  had  been  watch- 
ing for  that  very  move.  It  was  useless  now  to  regret  that  he 
had  tried  to  foil  pursuit  by  turning  back  on  his  tracks  to  regain 
the  mountains  east  of  Bonneville.  Now  Delaney  was  almost 
on  him.  To  distance  that  posse  was  the  only  thing  to  be 
thought  of  now.  It  was  no  longer  a  question  of  hiding  till  pur- 
suit would  flag ;  they  had  driven  him  out  from  the  shelter  of 
the  mountains,  into  this  populous  countryside,  where  an  enemy 
might  be  met  with  at  every  turn  of  the  road.  Now  it  was  life 
or  death.  He  would  cither  escape  or  be  killed.  He  knew  very 
well  that  he  would  never  allow  himself  to  be  taken  alive.  But 
he  had  no  mind  to  be  killed  —  to  turn  and  fight  —  till  escape 
was  blocked.     His  one  thought  was  to  leave  pursuit  behind. 

Weeks  of  flight  had  sharpened  Dyke's  every  sense.  As  he 
turned  into  the  Upper  Road  beyond  Guadalajara,  he  saw  the  three 
men  galloping  down  from  Derrick's  stock  range,  making  for  the 
road  ahead  of  him.  They  would  cut  him  ofiE  there.  He  swung 
the  buckskin  about.  He  must  take  the  Lower  Road  across 
Los  Muertos  from  Guadalajara,  and  he  must  reach  it  before 
Delaney's  dogs  and  posse.  Back  he  galloped,  the  buckskin 
measuring  her  length  with  every  leap.     Once  more  the  station 

1  From  The  Octopus.  Doubleday,  Page,  andCompany.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


THE  PURSUIT  OF   THE  OUTLAW  487 

came  in  sight.  Rising  in  his  stirrups,  he  looked  across  the  fields 
in  the  direction  of  the  Lower  Road.  There  was  a  cloud  of  dust 
there.  From  a  wagon  ?  No,  horses  on  the  run,  and  their 
riders  were  armed  !  He  could  catch  a  flash  of  gun  barrels. 
They  were  all  closing  in  on  him,  converging  on  Guadalajara  by 
every  available  road.  The  Upper  Road  west  of  Guadalajara 
led  straight  to  Bonneville.  That  way  was  impossible.  Was  he 
in  a  trap  ?     Had  the  time  for  fighting  come  at  last  ? 

But  as  Dyke  neared  the  depot  at  Guadalajara,  his  eye  fell 
upon  the  detached  locomotive  that  lay  quietly  steaming  on  the 
up  line,  and  with  a  thrill  of  exultation,  he  remembered  that  he 
was  an  engineer  born  and  bred.  Delaney's  dogs  were  already 
to  be  heard,  and  the  roll  of  hoofs  on  the  Lower  Road  was  din- 
ning in  his  ears,  as  he  leaped  from  the  buckskin  before  the 
depot.  The  train  crew  scattered  like  frightened  sheep  before 
him,  but  Dyke  ignored  them.  His  pistol  was  in  his  hand  as, 
once  more  on  foot,  he  sprang  toward  the  lone  engine. 

"Out  of  the  cab,"  he  shouted.  "Both  of  you.  Quick,  or 
I'll  kill  you  both." 

The  two  men  tumbled  from  the  iron  apron  of  the  tender  as 
Dyke  swung  himself  up,  dropping  his  pistol  on  the  floor  of  the 
cab  and  reaching  with  the  old  instinct  for  the  familiar  levers. 

The  great  compound  hissed  and  trembled  as  the  steam  was 
released,  and  the  huge  drivers  stirred,  turning  slowly  on  the 
tracks.  But  there  was  a  shout.  Delaney's  posse,  dogs  and  men, 
swung  into  view  at  the  curve  of  the  road,  their  figures  leaning 
over  as  they  took  the  curve  at  full  speed.  Dyke  threw  every- 
thing wide  open  and  caught  up  his  revolver.  From  behind 
came  the  challenge  of  a  Winchester  The  party  on  the  Lower 
Road  were  even  closer  than  Delaney.  They  had  seen  his  ma- 
noeuver,  and  the  first  shot  of  the  fight  shivered  the  cab  windows 
above  the  engineer's  head. 

But  spinning  futilely  at  first,  the  drivers  of  the  engine  at  last 
caught  the  rails.  The  engine  moved,  advanced,  traveled  past 
the  depot  and  the  freight  train,  and  gathering  speed,  rolled  out 
on  the  track  beyond.  Smoke,  black  and  boiling,  shot  skyward 
from  the  stack ;  not  a  joint  that  did  not  shudder  with  the  mighty 


4S8  ELEMEXTS  OF  STORY   UKITI.XC 

strain  of  the  steam  ;  l)Ut  llu'  great  iron  brute  —  one  of  Baldwin's 
newest  and  best  —  came  to  call,  obedient  and  docile  as  soon  as 
ever  the  great  pulsing  heart  of  it  felt  a  master  hand  ujion  its 
levers.  It  gathered  its  speed,  bracing  its  steel  muscles,  its  thews 
of  iron,  and  roared  out  upon  the  open  track,  filling  the  air  with 
the  rasp  of  its  tempest-breath,  blotting  the  sunshine  with  the 
belch  of  its  hot,  thick  smoke.  Already  it  was  lessening  in  the 
distance,  when  Uelaney,  Christian,  and  the  sheriff  of  Visalia 
dashed  up  to  the  station. 

The  posse  had  seen  everything. 

"Stuck.     Curse  the  luck!"  vociferated  the  cow^-puncher. 

But  the  sheriff  was  already  out  of  the  saddle  and  into  the 
telegraph  office. 

"There's  a  derailing  switch  between  here  and  Pi.xley,  isn't 
there?"  he  cried. 

"Yes." 

"Wire  ahead  to  open  it.  We'll  derail  him  there.  Come  on," 
he  turned  to  Delaney  and  the  others.  They  sprang  into  the 
cab  of  the  locomotive  that  was  attached  to  the  freight 
train. 

"Name  of  the  State  of  California,"  shouted  the  sheriff  to  the 
bewildered  engineer.     "Cut  off  from  your  train." 

The  sheriff  was  a  man  to  be  obeyed  without  hesitating.  Time 
was  not  allowed  the  crew  of  the  freight  train  for  debating  as  to 
the  right  or  the  wrong  of  requisitioning  the  engine,  and  before 
any  one  thought  of  the  safety  or  danger  of  the  affair,  the  freight 
engine  was  already  flying  out  upon  the  down  line,  hot  in  pursuit 
of  Dyke,  now  far  ahead  upon  the  up  track. 

"I  remember  perfectly  well  there's  a  derailing  switch  between 
here  and  Pi.xley,"  shouted  the  sheriff  above  the  roar  of  the  loco- 
motive. "The}'  use  it  in  case  they  have  to  derail  runaway 
engines.  It  runs  right  off  into  the  country.  W'e'll  pile  him  up 
there.     Ready  with  your  guns,  boys." 

"If  we  should  meet  another  train  coming  up  on  this  track  — " 
protested   the   frightened   engineer. 

"Then  we'd  jump  or  be  smashed.  Hi!  look!  there  he  is." 
As  the  freight  engine  rounded  a  curve.  Dyke's  engine  came  into 


THE  PURSUIT  OF   THE  OUTLAW  489 

view  shooting  on  some  quarter  of  a  mile  ahead  of  them,  wreathed 
in  whirling  smoke. 

"The  switch  ain't  much  further  on,"  clamored  the  engineer. 
"You  can  see  Pixley  now." 

Dyke,  his  hand  on  the  grip  of  the  valve  that  controlled  the 
steam,  his  head  out  of  the  cab  window,  thundered  on.  He  was 
back  in  his  old  place  again ;  once  more  he  was  the  engineer ; 
once  more  he  felt  the  engine  quiver  under  him ;  the  familiar 
noises  were  in  his  ears ;  the  familiar  buffeting  of  the  wind  surged, 
roaring  at  his  face ;  the  familiar  odors  of  hot  steam  and  smoke 
reeked  in  his  nostrils,  and  on  either  side  of  him,  parallel  pano- 
ramas, the  two  halves  of  the  landscape  sliced,  as  it  were,  in  two 
by  the  clashing  wheels  of  his  engine,  streamed  by  in  green  and 
brown  blurs. 

He  found  himself  settling  to  the  old  position  on  the  cab  seat, 
leaning  on  his  elbow  from  the  window,  one  hand  on  the  control- 
ler. All  at  once,  the  instinct  of  the  pursuit  that  of  late  had  be- 
come so  strong  within  him,  prompted  him  to  shoot  a  glance 
behind.  He  saw  the  other  engine  on  the  down  line,  plunging 
after  him,  rocking  from  side  to  side  with  the  fury  of  its  gallop. 
Not  yet  had  he  shaken  the  trackers  from  his  heels ;  not  yet  was 
he  out  of  the  reach  of  danger.  He  set  his  teeth  and,  throwing 
open  the  fire-door,  stoked  vigorously  for  a  few  moments.  The 
indicator  of  the  steam  gauge  rose ;  his  speed  increased ;  a  glance 
at  the  telegraph  poles  told  him  he  was  doing  his  fifty  miles  an 
hour.  The  freight  engine  behind  him  was  never  built  for  that 
pace.  Barring  the  terrible  risk  of  accident,  his  chances  were 
good. 

But  suddenly  —  the  engineer  dominating  the  highwayman 
—  he  shut  off  his  steam  and  threw  back  his  brake  to  the  extreme 
notch.  Directly  ahead  of  him  rose  a  semaphore,  placed  at  a 
point  where  evidently  a  derailing  switch  branched  from  the 
line.  The  semaphore's  arm  was  dropped  over  the  track,  setting 
the  danger  signal  that  showed  the  switch  was  open. 

In  an  instant,  Dyke  saw  the  trick.  They  had  meant  to  smash 
him  here ;  had  been  clever  enough,  quick-witted  enough  to 
open  the  switch,  but  had  forgotten  the  automatic  semaphore 


490  liLKMK.XTS  or  STORV   URITIXG 

that  worked  simultaneously  with  the  movement  of  the  rails. 
To  go  forward  was  certain  destruction.  Dyke  reversed.  There 
was  nothinjij  for  it  but  to  go  back.  With  a  wrench  and  a  spasm 
of  all  its  metal  fibers,  the  great  compound  braced  itself,  sliding 
with  rigid  wheels  along  the  rails.  Then,  as  Dyke  applied  the 
reverse,  it  drew  back  from  the  greater  danger,  returning  toward 
the  less.  Inevitably  now  the  two  engines,  t)ne  on  the  up,  the 
other  on  the  down  line,  must  meet  and  pass  each  other. 

Dyke  released  the  levers,  reaching  for  his  revolver.  The 
engineer  once  more  became  the  highwayman,  in  peril  of  his  life. 
Now,  beyond  all  doubt,  the  time  for  fighting  was  at  hand. 

The  party  in  the  heavy  freight  engine,  that  lumbered  after 
in  pursuit,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  smudge  of  smoke  on  ahead 
that  marked  the  path  of  the  fugitive,  suddenly  raised  a  shout. 

''He's  stopped.  He's  broke  down.  Watch,  now,  and  see 
if  he  jumps  off." 

''Broke  nothing.  He^s  coming  back.  Ready,  now,  he's  got 
to  pass  us." 

The  engineer  applied  the  brakes,  but  the  heavy  freight  loco- 
motive, far  less  mobile  than  Dyke's  flyer,  was  slow  to  obey. 
The  smudge  on  the  rails  ahead  grew  swiftly  larger. 

"He's  coming.  He's  coming  —  look  out,  there's  a  shot. 
He's  shooting  already." 

A  bright,  white  sliver  of  wood  leaped  into  the  air  from  the 
sooty  window-sill  of  the  cab. 

"f'ire  on  him!     Fire  on  him!" 

Willie  the  engines  were  yet  two  hundred  yards  apart,  the  duel 
began,  shot  answering  shot,  the  sharp  staccato  reports  punctuat- 
ing the  thunder  of  wheels  and  the  clamor  of  steam. 

Then  the  ground  trembled  and  rocked;  a  roar  as  of  heavy 
ordnance  developed  with  the  abruptness  of  an  explosion.  The  two 
engines  passed  each  other,  the  men  firing  the  while,  emptying  their 
revolvers,  shattering  wood,  shivering  glass,  the  bullets  clanging 
against  the  metal  work  as  they  struck  and  struck  and  struck. 
The  men  leaned  from  the  cabs  towards  each  other,  frantic  with 
excitement,  shouting  curses,  the  engines  rocking,  the  steam  roar- 
ing ;  confusion  whirling  in  the  scene  like  the  whirl  of  a  witch's 


THE  PURSUIT  OF   THE  OUTLAW  491 

dance,  the  white  clouds  of  steam,  the  black  eddies  from  the  smoke- 
stack, the  blue  wreaths  from  the  hot  mouths  of  the  revolvers, 
swirling  together  in  a  blinding  maze  of  vapor,  spinning  around 
them,  dazing  them,  dizzying  them,  while  the  head  rang  with 
hideous  clamor  and  the  body  twitched  and  trembled  with  the 
leap  and  jar  of  the  tumult  of  machinery. 

Roaring,  clamoring,  reeking  with  the  smell  of  powder  and 
oil,  spitting  death,  resistless,  huge,  furious,  an  abrupt  \dsion  of 
chaos,  faces,  rage-distorted,  peering  through  the  smoke,  hands 
gripping  outward  from  sudden  darkness,  prehensile,  malev- 
olent ;  terrible  as  thunder,  swift  as  lightning,  the  two  engines 
met  and  passed. 

"He's  hit,"  cried  Delaney.  "I  know  I  hit  him.  He  can't 
go  far  now.  After  him  again.  He  won't  dare  go  through 
Bonneville." 

It  was  true.  Dyke  had  stood  between  cab  and  tender 
throughout  all  the  duel,  exposed,  reckless,  thinking  only  of 
attack  and  not  of  defense,  and  a  bullet  from  one  of  the  pistols 
had  grazed  his  hip.  How  serious  was  the  wound  he  did  not 
know,  but  he  had  no  thought  of  giving  up.  He  tore  back  through 
the  depot  at  Guadalajara  in  a  storm  of  bullets,  and,  clinging  to 
the  broken  window-ledge  of  his  cab,  was  carried  toward  Bonne- 
ville, on  over  the  Long  Trestle  and  Broderson  Creek  and  through 
the  open  country  between  the  two  ranches  of  Los  Muertos  and 
Quien  Sabe. 

But  to  go  to  Bonneville  meant  certain  death.  Before,  as 
well  as  behind  him,  the  roads  were  now  blocked.  Once  more 
he  thought  of  the  mountains.  He  resolved  to  abandon  the  en- 
gine and  make  another  final  attempt  to  get  into  the  shelter  of 
the  hills  in  the  northernmost  corner  of  Quien  Sabe.  He  set 
his  teeth.  He  would  not  give  in.  There  was  one  more  fight 
left  in  him  yet.     Now  to  try  the  final  hope. 

He  slowed  the  engine  down,  and,  reloading  his  revolver, 
jumped  from  the  platform  to  the  road.  He  looked  about  him, 
listening.  All  around  him  widened  an  ocean  of  wheat.  There 
was  no  one  in  sight. 

The  released  engine,  alone,  unattended,  drew  slowly  away 


402  ELEMENTS  OF  STORY    W  KllIXG 

friMii  him.  jolting  jionderously  Dvcr  the  rail  joints.  As. he 
watched  it  go,  a  certain  indet'initc  sense  of  abandonment,  even 
in  that  moment,  came  over  Dyke.  His  last  friend,  that  also 
had  been  his  first,  was  leaving  him.  He  remembered  that  day, 
long  ago,  when  he  had  opened  the  throttle  of  his  first  machine. 
To-day,  it  was  leaving  him  alone,  hi?  last  friend  turning  against 
him.  Slowly  it  was  going  back  towards  Bonneville,  to  the  shops 
of  the  Railroad,  the  camp  of  the  enemy,  that  enemy  that  had 
ruined  him  and  wrecked  him.  For  the  last  time  in  his  life,  he  had 
been  the  engineer.  Now,  once  more,  he  became  the  highway- 
man, the  outlaw  against  whom  all  hands  were  raised,  the  fugi- 
tive skulking  in  the  mountains,  listening  for  the  cry  of  dogs. 

But  he  would  not  give  in.  They  had  not  broken  him  yet. 
Never,  while  he  could  fight,  would  he  allow  S.  Behrman  the 
triumph  of  his  capture. 

He  found  his  wound  was  not  bad.  He  plunged  into  the  wheat 
on  Quien  Sabe,  making  northward  for  a  division  house  that 
rose  with  its  surrounding  trees  out  of  the  wheat  like  an  island. 
He  reached  it,  the  blood  squelching  in  his  shoes.  But  the  sight 
of  two  men,  Portuguese  farm-hands,  staring  at  him  from  an 
angle  of  the  barn,  abruptly  roused  him  to  action.  He  sprang 
forward  with  peremptory  commands,  demanding  a  horse. 

At  Guadalajara,  Delaney  and  the  sherifif  descended  from  the 
freight  engine. 

"  Horses  nov.-,"  declared  the  sheriff.  "  He  won't  go  into  Bonne- 
ville, that's  certain.  He'll  leave  the  engine  between  here  and 
there,  and  strike  off  into  the  country.  We'll  follow  after  him 
now  in  the  saddle.  Soon  as  he  leaves  his  engine,  he''s  on  foot. 
We've  as  good -as  got  him  now." 

Their  horses,  including  even  the  buckskin  mare  that  Dyke 
had  ridden,  were  still  at  the  station.  The  party  swung  them- 
selves up,  Delaney  exclaiming,  "Here's  my  mount,"  as  he  be- 
strode the  buckskin. 

At  Guadalajara,  the  two  bloodhounds  were  picked  up  again. 
Urging  the  jaded  horses  to  a  gallop,  the  party  set  oft  along  the 
Upper  Road,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  to  right  and  left  for  traces 
of  Dyke's  abandonment  of  the  engine. 


THE  PURSUIT  OF   THE  OUTLAW 


493 


Three  miles  beyond  the  Long  Trestle,  they  found  S.  Behrman 
holding  his  saddle  horse  by  the  bridle,  and  looking  attentively 
at  a  trail  that  had  been  broken  through  the  standing  wheat  on 
Quien  Sabe.     The  party  drew  rein. 

"The  engine  passed  me  on  the  tracks  further  up,  and  empty," 
said  S.  Behrman.     "Boys,  I  think  he  left  her  here." 

But  before  anyone  could  answer,  the  bloodhounds  gave  tongue 
again,  as  they  picked  up  the  scent. 

"That's  him,"  cried  S.  Behrman.     "Get  on,  boys." 

They  dashed  forward,  following  the  hounds.  S.  Behrman 
laboriously  climbed  to  his  saddle,  panting,  perspiring,  mopping 
the  roll  of  fat  over  his  coat  collar,  and  turned  in  after  them, 
trotting  along  far  in  the  rear,  his  great  stomach  and  tremulous 
jowl  shaking  with  the  horse's  gait. 

"What  a  day,"  he  murmured.     "What  a  day." 

Dyke's  trail  was  fresh,  and  was  followed  as  easily  as  if  made 
on  new-fallen  snow.  In  a  short  time,  the  posse  swept  into  the 
open  space  around  the  division  house.  The  two  Portuguese 
were  still  there,  wide-eyed,  terribly  excited. 

Yes,  yes.  Dyke  had  been  there  not  half  an  hour  since,  had 
held  them  up,  taken  a  horse  and  galloped  to  the  northeast, 
towards  the  foothills  at  the  headwaters  of  Broderson  Creek. 

On  again,  at  full  gallop,  through  the  young  wheat,  trampling 
it  under  the  flying  hoofs ;  the  hounds  hot  on  the  scent,  baying 
continually ;  the  men,  on  fresh  mounts,  secured  at  the  division 
house,  bending  forward  in  their  saddles,  spurring  relentlessly. 
S.  Behrman  jolted  along  far  in  the  rear. 

And  even  then,  harried  through  an  open  country,  where  there 
was  no  place  to  hide,  it  was  a  matter  of  amazement  how  long  a 
chase  the  highwayman  led  them.  Fences  were  passed ;  fences 
whose  barbed  wire  had  been  slashed  apart  by  the  fugitive's 
knife.  The  ground  rose  under  foot ;  the  hills  were  at  hand ; 
still  the  pursuit  held  on.  The  sun,  long  past  the  meridian, 
began  to  turn  earthward.  Would  night  come  on  before  they 
were  up  with  him? 

"Look  !  Look  !     There  he  is  !     Quick,  there  he  goes  !" 

High  on  the  bare  slope  of  the  nearest  hill,  all  the  posse,  look- 


494  ELEMENTS  OF  STOKV    WRniXG 

iiii;  in  the  dirccUon  of  Delaney's  gesture,  saw  the  figure  of  a 
horseman  enier.ue  from  an  arroyo,  tilled  with  chaparral,  and 
struggle  at  a  laboring  gallop  straight  up  the  s1o[k'.  Suddenly, 
every  member  of  the  party  shouted  aloud.  The  horse  had 
fallen,  pitching  the  rider  from  the  saddle.  The  man  rose  to  his 
feet,  caught  at  the  bridle,  missed  it,  and  the  horse  dashed  on 
alone.  The  man,  pausing  for  a  second,  looked  around,  saw  the 
chase  drawing  nearer,  then,  turning  back,  disappeared  in  the 
chaparral.     Delaney  raised  a  great  whoop. 

"We've  got  you  now." 

Into  the  slopes  and  valleys  of  the  hills  dashed  the  band  of 
horsemen,  the  trail  now  so  fresh  that  it  could  be  easily  discerned 
by  all.  On  and  on  it  led  them,  a  furious,  wild  scramble  straight 
up  the  slopes.  The  minutes  went  by.  The  dry  bed  of  a  rivulet 
was  passed ;  then  another  fence  ;  then  a  tangle  of  manzanita  ; 
a  meadow  of  wild  oats,  full  of  agitated  cattle ;  then  an  arroyo, 
thick  with  chaparral  and  scrub  oaks,  and  then,  without  warn- 
ing, the  pistol  shots  ripped  out  and  ran  from  rider  to  rider  with 
the  rapidity  of  a  gatling  discharge,  and  one  of  the  deputies  bent 
forward  in  the  saddle,  both  hands  to  his  face,  the  blood  jetting 
from  between  his  lingers. 

Dyke  was  there,  at  bay  at  last,  his  back  against  a  bank  of 
rock,  the  roots  of  a  fallen  tree  serving  him  as  a  rampart,  his 
revolver  smoking  in  his  hand. 

"You're  under  arrest.  Dyke,"  cried  the  sheriff.  "It's  not 
the  least  use  to  fight.     The  whole  country  is  up." 

Dyke  fired  again,  the  shot  splintering  the  foreleg  of  the  horse 
the  sherifif  rode. 

The  posse,  four  men  all  told  —  the  wounded  deputy  having 
crawled  out  of  the  fight  after  Dyke's  first  shot  —  fell  back  after 
the  preliminary  fusillade,  dismounted,  and  took  shelter  behind 
rocks  and  trees.  On  that  rugged  ground,  fighting  from  the 
saddle  was  impracticable.  Dyke,  in  the  meanwhile,  held  his 
fire,  for  he  knew  that,  once  his  pistol  was  empty,  he  would  never 
be  allowed  time  to  reload. 

"Dyke,"  called  the  sheriff  again,  "for  the  last  time,  I  sum- 
mon you  to  surrender." 


THE  PURSUIT  OF   THE  OUTLAW  495 

Dyke  did  not  reply.  The  sheriff,  Delaney,  and  the  man 
named  Christian  conferred  together  in  a  low  voice.  Then 
Delaney  and  Christian  left  the  others,  making  a  wide  detour 
up  the  sides  of  the  arroyo,  to  gain  a  position  to  the  left  and  some- 
what to  the  rear  of  Dyke. 

But  it  was  at  this  moment  that  S.  Behrman  arrived.  It 
could  not  be  said  whether  it  was  courage  or  carelessness  that 
brought  the  Railroad's  agent  within  reach  of  Dyke's  revolver. 
Possibly  he  was  really  a  brave  man ;  possibly  occupied  with 
keeping  an  uncertain  seat  upon  the  back  of  his  laboring,  scram- 
bling horse,  he  had  not  noticed  that  he  was  so  close  upon  that 
scene  of  battle.  He  certainly  did  not  observe  the  posse  lying 
upon  the  ground  between  sheltering  rocks  and  trees,  and  before 
any  one  could  call  a  warning,  he  had  ridden  out  into  the  open, 
within  thirty  paces  of  Dyke's  intrenchment. 

Dyke  saw.  There  was  the  arch-enemy ;  the  man  of  all  men 
whom  he  most  hated ;  the  man  who  had  ruined  him,  who  had 
exasperated  him  and  driven  him  to  crime,  and  who  had  insti- 
gated tireless  pursuit  through  all  those  past  terrible  weeks. 
Suddenly,  inviting  death,  he  leaped  up  and  forward ;  he  had  for- 
gotten all  else,  all  other  considerations,  at  the  sight  of  this  man. 
He  would  die,  gladly,  so  only  that  S.  Behrman  died  before 
him. 

"I've  got  you,  anyway,"  he  shouted,  as  he  ran  forward. 

The  muzzle  of  the  weapon  was  not  ten  feet  from  S.  Behrman's 
huge  stomach  as  Dyke  drew  the  trigger.  Had  the  cartridge 
exploded,  death,  certain  and  swift,  would  have  followed,  but 
at  this,  of  all  moments,  the  revolver  missed  fire. 

S.  Behrman,  with  an  unexpected  agility,  leaped  from  the 
saddle,  and,  keeping  his  horse  between  him  and  Dyke,  ran,  dodg- 
ing and  ducking,  from  tree  to  tree.  His  first  shot  a  failure.  Dyke 
fired  again  and  again  at  his  enemy,  emptying  his  revolver,  reck- 
less of  consecjuences.  His  every  shot  went  wild,  and  before  he 
could  draw  his  knife,  the  whole  posse  was  upon  him. 

Without  concerted  plans,  obeying  no  signal  but  the  prompt- 
ings of  the  impulse  that  snatched,  unerring,  at  opportunity  — 
the  men,  Delaney  and  Christian  from  one  side,  the  sheriff  and 


4q6  elements  of  STOKV    W  KITIXG 

tlic  ikputy  from  the  uUkt,  rushed  in.  Tliey  did  not  fire.  It 
Wiis  Dyke  alive  they  wanted.  One  of  them  had  a  riata  snatched 
from  a  saddle-pommel,  and  witli  this  they  tried  to  bind  him. 

The  fight  was  four  to  one  —  four  men  with  law  on  their  side 
to  one  wounded  freebooter,  half-starved,  exhausted  by  days  and 
nights  of  pursuit,  worn  down  with  loss  of  sleep,  thirst,  i)rivation. 
and  the  grinding,  nerve- rackingt consciousness  of  an  ever-presenl 
peril. 

They  swarmed  upon  him  from  all  sides,  gripping  at  his  legs, 
at  his  arms,  his  thn  at,  his  head,  striking,  clutching,  kicking, 
falling  to  the  ground,  rolling  over  and  over,  now  under,  now 
above,  now  staggering  forward,  now  toppling  back. 

Still  Dyke  fought.  Through  that  scrambling,  struggling 
group,  through  that  maze  of  twisting  bodies,  twining  arms, 
straining  legs,  S.  Behrman  saw  him  from  moment  to  moment, 
his  face  flaming,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  his  hair  matted  with  sweat. 
Now  he  was  down,  pinned  under,  two  men  across  his  legs,  and 
now  half-way  up  again,  struggling  to  one  knee.  Then  upright 
again,  with  half  his  enemies  hanging  on  his  back.  His  colossal 
strength  seemed  doubled ;  when  his  arms  were  held,  he  fought 
bull-like  with  his  head.  A  score  of  times,  it  seemed  as  if  they 
were  about  to  secure  him  finally  and  irrevocably,  and  then  he 
would  free  an  arm,  a  leg,  a  shoulder,  and  the  group  that,  for  the 
fraction  of  an  instant,  had  settled,  locked  and  rigid,  on  its  prey, 
would  break  up  again  as  he  flung  a  man  from  him,  reeling  and 
bloody,  and  he  himself  twisting,  squirming,  dodging,  his  great 
fists  working  like  pistons,  backed  away,  dragging  and  carrying 
the  others  with  him. 

More  than  once,  he  loosened  almost  every  grip,  and  for  an 
instant  stood  nearly  free,  panting,  rolling  his  eyes,  his  clothes 
torn  from  his  body,  bleeding,  dripping  with  sweat,  a  terrible 
figure,  nearly  free.  The  sheriff,  under  his  breath,  uttered  an 
e.xclamation :  — 

"By  God,  he'll  get  away  yet." 

S.  Behrman  watched  the  fight  complacently. 

"That  all  may  show  obstinacy,"  he  commented,  "but  it 
don't  show  common  sense." 


THE  PURSUIT  OF   THE  OUTLAW  497 

Yet,  however  Dyke  might  throw  off  the  clutches  and  fetter- 
ing embraces  that  encircled  him,  however  he  might  disintegrate 
and  scatter  the  band  of  foes  that  heaped  themselves  upon  him, 
however  he  might  gain  one  instant  of  comparative  liberty,  some 
one  of  his  assailants  always  hung,  doggedly,  blindly  to  an  arm, 
a  leg,  or  a  foot,  and  the  others,  drawing  a  second's  breath, 
closed  in  again,  implacable,  unconquerable,  ferocious,  like 
hounds  upon  a  wolf. 

At  length,  two  of  the  men  managed  to  bring  Dyke's  wrists 
close  enough  together  to  allow  the  sheriff  to  snap  the  handcuffs 
on.  Even  then.  Dyke,  clasping  his  hands,  and  using  the  hand- 
cuffs themselves  as  a  weapon,  knocked  down  Delaney  by  the 
crushing  impact  of  the  steel  bracelets  upon  the  cow-puncher's 
forehead.  But  he  could  no  longer  protect  himself  from  attacks 
from  behind,  and  the  riata  was  finally  passed  around  his  body, 
pinioning  his  arms  to  his  sides.  After  this  it  was  useless  to 
resist. 

The  wounded  deputy  sat  with  his  back  to  a  rock,  holding  his 
broken  jaw  in  both  hands.  The  sheriff's  horse,  with  its  splin- 
tered foreleg,  would  have  to  be  shot.  Delaney's  head  was  cut 
from  temple  to  cheekbone.  The  right  wrist  of  the  sheriff  was 
all  but  dislocated.  The  other  deputy  was  so  exhausted  he  had 
to  be  helped  to  his  horse.     But  Dyke  was  taken. 

He  himself  had  suddenly  lapsed  into  semi-unconsciousness, 
unable  to  walk.  They  set  him  on  the  buckskin,  S.  Behrman 
supporting  him,  the  sheriff,  on  foot,  leading  the  horse  by  the 
bridle.  The  little  procession  formed,  and  descended  from  the 
hills,  turning  in  the  direction  of  Bonneville.  A  special  train, 
one  car  and  an  engine,  would  be  made  up  there,  and  the  high- 
wayman would  sleep  in  the  Visalia  jail  that  night. 

Delaney  and  S.  Behrman  found  themselves  in  the  rear  of  the 
cavalcade  as  it  moved  off.  The  cow-puncher  turned  to  his 
chief :  — 

"Well,  captain,"  he  said,  still  panting,  as  he  bound  up  his 
forehead;   "well  —  we  go^  him." 


2t. 


49S  ELEAfENTS  OF  STORV   U  KITING 

2.    Description 

NATURE   SPEAKS' 

George  Meredith 

An  oppressive  slumber  hung  about  the  forest-branches.  In 
the  dells  and  on  the  heights  were  the  same  dead  heat.  Here 
where  the  brook  tinkled  it  was  no  cool-lipped  sound,  but  metallic, 
and  without  the  spirit  of  water.  Yonder  in  a  space  of  moon- 
light on  lush  grass,  the  beams  were  as  white  fire  to  sight  and 
feeling.  No  haze  spread  around.  The  valleys  were  clear,  de- 
fined to  the  shadows  of  their  verges ;  the  distances  sharply 
distinct,  and  with  the  colors  of  day  but  slightly  softened. 
Richard  beheld  a  roe  moving  across  a  slope  of  sward  far  out 
of  rifle-mark.  The  breathless  silence  was  significant,  yet  the 
moon  shone  in  a  broad  blue  heaven.  Tongue  out  of  mouth 
trotted  the  little  dog  after  him;  crouched  panting  when  he 
stopped  an  instant ;  rose  weariedly  when  he  started  afresh. 
Now  and  then  a  large  white  night-moth  flitted  through  the 
dusk  of  the  forest. 

On  a  barren  corner  of  the  wooded  highland,  looking  inland, 
stood  gray  topless  ruins  set  in  nettles  and  grass-blades.  Richard 
mechanically  sat  down  on  the  crumbling  flints  to  rest,  and  lis- 
tened to  the  panting  of  the  dog.  Sprinkled  at  his  feet  were 
emerald  lights ;  hundreds  of  glow-worms  studded  the  dark,  dry 
ground. 

He  sat  and  eyed  them,  thinking  not  at  all.  His  energies  were 
expanded  in  action.  He  sat  as  a  part  of  the  ruins,  and  the  moon 
turned  his  shadow  westward  from  the  South.  Overhead,  as  she 
declined,  long  ripples  of  silver  cloud  were  imperceptibly  stealing 
toward  her.  They  were  the  van  of  a  tempest.  He  did  not  ob- 
ser\'e  them  or  the  leaves  beginning  to  chatter.  When  he  again 
pursued  his  course,  with  his  face  to  the  Rhine,  a  huge  mountain 
appeared  to  rise  sheer  over  him,  and  he  had  it  in  his  mind  to  scale 

*  From  The  Ordeal  of  Richard  Fevercl.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Reprinted  by 
permission. 


NATURE  SPEAKS 


499 


jt.  He  got  no  nearer  to  the  base  of  it  for  all  his  vigorous  out- 
stepping. The  ground  began  to  dip ;  he  lost  sight  of  the  sky. 
Then  heavy  thunder-drops  struck  his  cheek,  the  leaves  were 
singing,  the  earth  breathed,  it  was  black  before  him  and  behind. 
All  at  once  the  thunder  spoke.  The  mountain  he  had  marked 
was  bursting  over  him. 

Up  started  the  whole  forest  in  violet  fire.  He  saw  the  country 
at  the  foot  of  the  hill  to  the  bounding  Rhine  gleam,  quiver,  ex- 
tinguished. Then  there  were  pauses ;  and  the  lightning  seemed 
as  the  eye  of  heaven,  and  the  thunder  as  the  tongue  of  heaven, 
each  alternately  addressing  him  ;  filling  him  with  awful  rapture. 
Alone  there  —  sole  human  creature  among  the  grandeurs  and 
mysteries  of  storm  —  he  felt  the  representative  of  his  kind,  and 
his  spirit  rose,  and  marched,  and  exulted,  let  it  be  glory,  let  it  be 
ruin  !  Lower  down  the  lighted  abysses  of  air  rolled  the  wrathful 
crash :  then  white  thrusts  of  light  were  darted  from  the  skies, 
and  great  curving  ferns,  seen  steadfast  in  pallor  a  second,  were 
supernaturally  agitated  and  vanished.  Then  a  shrill  song  roused 
in  the  leaves  and  the  herbage.  Prolonged  and  louder  it  sounded, 
as  deeper  and  heavier  the  deluge  pressed.  A  mighty  force  of 
water  satisfied  the  desire  of  the  earth.  Even  in  this,  drenched 
as  he  was  by  the  first  outpouring,  Richard  had  a  savage  pleasure. 
Keeping  in  motion,  he  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the  wet,  and  the 
grateful  breath  of  the  weeds  was  refreshing.  Suddenly  he 
stopped  short,  lifting  a  curious  nostril.  He  fancied  he  smelt 
meadow-sweet.  He  had  never  seen  the  flower  in  Rhine-land  — 
never  thought  of  it ;  and  it  would  hardly  be  met  with  in  a  forest. 
He  was  sure  he  smelt  it  fresh  in  dews.  His  little  companion 
wagged  a  miserable  wet  tail  some  way  in  advance.  He  went 
on  slowly,  thinking  indistinctly.  After  two  or  three  steps  he 
stooped  and  stretched  out  his  hand  to  feel  for  the  flower,  having, 
he  knew  not  why,  a  strong  wish  to  verify  its  growth  here.  Grop- 
ing about,  his  hand  encountered  something  warm  that  started  at 
his  touch,  and  he,  with  the  instinct  we  have,  seized  it,  and  lifted 
it  to  look  at  it.  The  creature  was  very  small,  evidently  quite 
young.  Richard's  eyes,  now  accustomed  to  the  darkness,  were 
able  to  discern  it  for  what  it  was,  a  tinv  leveret,  and  he  supposed 


500 


ELEMENTS  OF  STORY  WRITING 


ihal  Uk-  iloLj  had  i)ri)l)al)ly  frightened  its  dam  just  I)cfore  he 
found  it.  He  put  the  little  thing  on  one  hand  in  liis  l)reast,  and 
stepped  out  rapidly  as  before. 

The  rain  was  now  steady ;  from  every  tree  a  fountain  poured. 
So  cool  and  easy  had  his  mind  become  that  he  was  speculating 
on  what  kind  of  shelter  the  birds  could  tind,  and  how  the  butter- 
flies and  moths  saved  their  colored  wings  from  washing.  Folded 
close,  they  might  hang  under  a  leaf,  he  thought.  Lovingly,  he 
looked  into  the  dripping  darkness  of  the  coverts  on  each  side,  as 
one  of  their  children.  He  was  next  musing  on  a  strange  sensa- 
tion he  experienced.  It  ran  up  one  arm  with  an  indescribable 
thrill,  but  communicated  nothing  to  his  heart.  It  was  purely 
physical,  ceased  for  a  time,  but  recommenced,  till  he  had  it  all 
through  his  blood,  wonderfully  thrilling.  He  grew  aware  that 
the  little  thing  he  carried  in  his  breast  was  licking  his  hand  there. 
The  small  rough  tongue  going  over  and  over  the  palm  of  his 
hand  produced  the  strange  sensation  he  felt.  Now  that  he  knew 
the  cause,  the  marvel  ended ;  but  now  that  he  knew  the  cause, 
his  heart  was  touched  and  made  more  of  it.  The  gentle  scraping 
continued  without  intermission  as  on  he  walked.  What  did  it 
say  to  him  ?  Human  tongue  could  not  have  said  so  much  just 
then. 

A  pale  gray  light  on  the  skirts  of  the  flying  tempest  displayed 
the  dawn.  Richard  was  walking  hurriedly.  The  green  drenched 
weeds  lay  all  about  in  his  path,  bent  thick,  and  the  forest  drooped 
glimmeringly.  Impelled  as  a  man  who  feels  a  revelation  mount- 
ing obscurely  to  his  brain,  Richard  was  passing  one  of  those  little 
forest  chapels,  hung  with  votive  wreaths,  where  the  peasant  halts 
to  kneel  and  pray.  Cold,  still,  in  the  twilight  it  stood,  rain- 
drops pattering  around  it.  He  looked  within,  and  saw  the 
Virgin  holding  her  child.  He  moved  by.  But  not  many 
steps  had  he  gone  ere  his  strength  went  out  of  him,  and  he 
shuddered.  What  was  it  ?  He  asked  not.  He  was  in  other 
hands.  Vivid  as  lightning  the  Spirit  of  Life  illumined  him. 
He  felt  in  his  heart  the  cry  of  his  child,  his  darling's  touch. 
With  shut  eyes  he  saw  them  both.  They  drew  him  from  the 
depths ;   they  led  him  a  blind  and  tottering  man.     And  as  they 


NATURE  SPEAKS  501 

led  him  he  had  a  sense  of  purification  so  sweet  he  shuddered 
again  and  again. 

When  he  looked  out  from  his  trance  on  the  breathing  world, 
the  small  birds  hopped  and  chirped ;  warm,  fresh  sunlight  was 
over  all  the  hills.  He  was  on  the  edge  of  the  forest,  entering  a 
plain  clothed  with  ripe  corn  under  a  spacious  morning  sky. 


LIBRARY 

STATE  TEACHERS  COL'EGE 
SA.,TA  BARBARA.  CALIFORNIA 

L5.m. 


IV.   F.   SHORT   STORIES 

THE   SIRE   DE   MALETROIT'S   DOOR » 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson 

Denis  de  Beaulieu  was  not  yet  two-and-twenty,  but  he 
counted  himself  a  grown  man,  and  a  very  accomplished  cavalier 
into  the  bargain.  Lads  were  early  formed  in  that  rough,  war- 
faring  epoch ;  and  when  one  has  been  in  a  pitched  battle  and 
a  dozen  raids,  has  killed  one's  man  in  an  honorable  fashion,  and 
knows  a  thing  or  two  of  strategy  and  mankind,  a  certain  swag- 
ger in  the  gait  is  surely  to  be  pardoned.  He  had  put  up  his  horse 
with  due  care,  and  supped  with  due  deliberation ;  and  then,  in 
a  very  agreeable  frame  of  mind,  went  out  to  pay  a  visit  in  the 
gray  of  the  evening.  It  was  not  a  very  wise  proceeding  on  the 
young  man's  part.  He  would  ha\'e  done  better  to  remain  beside 
the  fire  or  go  decently  to  bed.  For  the  town  was  full  of  the 
troops  of  Burgundy  and  England  under  a  mLxed  command ;  and 
though  Denis  was  there  on  safe-conduct,  his  safe-conduct  was 
like  to  serve  him  little  on  a  chance  encounter. 

It  was  September,  1429;  the  weather  had  fallen  sharp;  a 
flighty  piping  wind,  laden  with  showers,  beat  about  the  town- 
ship ;  and  the  dead  leaves  ran  riot  along  the  streets.  Here  and 
there  a  window  was  already  lighted  up ;  and  the  noise  of  men- 
at-arms  making  merry  over  supper  within,  came  forth  in  fits 
and  was  swallowed  up  and  carried  away  by  the  wind.  The  night 
fell  swiftly;  the  flag  of  England,  fluttering  on  the  spire- top, 
grew  ever  fainter  and  fainter  against  the  flying  clouds  —  a 
black  speck  like  a  swallow  in  the  tumultuous,  leaden  chaos  of 
the  sky.     As  the  night  fell  the  wind  rose,  and  began  to  hoot 

•  From  NeK  Arabian  Nights.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Reprinted  by  permis- 
sion. 

502 


THE  SIRE  DE  MALETROITS  DOOR  503 

under  archways  and  roar  amid  the  tree-tops  in  the  valley  below 
the  town. 

Denis  de  Beaulieu  walked  fast  and  was  soon  knocking  at 
his  friend's  door ;  but  though  he  promised  himself  to  stay  only 
a  little  while  and  make  an  early  return,  his  welcome  was  so 
pleasant,  and  he  found  so  much  to  delay  him,  that  it  was  already 
long  past  midnight  before  he  said  good-by  upon  the  threshold. 
The  wind  had  fallen  again  in  the  meanwhile ;  the  night  was  as 
black  as  the  grave;  not  a  star,  nor  a  glimmer  of  moonshine, 
slipped  through  the  canopy  of  cloud.  Denis  was  ill-acquainted 
with  the  intricate  lanes  of  Chateau  Landon;  even  by  daylight 
he  had  found  some  trouble  in  picking  his  way;  and  in  this 
absolute  darkness  he  soon  lost  it  altogether.  He  was  certain 
of  one  thing  only  —  to  keep  mounting  the  hill ;  for  his  friend's 
house  lay  at  the  lower  end,  or  tail,  of  Chateau  Landon,  while 
the  inn  was  up  at  the  head,  under  the  great  church  spire.  With 
this  clew  to  go  upon  he  stumbled  and  groped  forward,  now  breath- 
ing more  freely  in  open  places  where  there  was  a  good  slice  of 
sky  overhead,  now  feeling  along  the  wall  in  stifling  closes.  It 
is  an  eerie  and  mysterious  position  to  be  thus  suljmerged  in 
opaque  blackness  in  an  almost  unknown  town.  The  silence 
is  terrifying  in  its  possibilities.  The  touch  of  cold  window  bars 
to  the  exploring  hand  startles  the  man  like  the  touch  of  a  toad ; 
the  inequalities  of  the  pavement  shake  his  heart  into  his  mouth ; 
a  piece  of  denser  darkness  threatens  an  ambuscade  or  a  chasm 
in  the  pathway;  and  where  the  air  is  brighter,  the  houses 
put  on  strange  and  bewildering  appearances,  as  if  to  lead  him 
farther  from  his  way.  For  Denis,  who  had  to  regain  his  inn 
without  attracting  notice,  there  was  real  danger  as  well  as  mere 
discomfort  in  the  walk ;  and  he  went  warily  and  boldly  at  once, 
and  at  every  corner  paused  to  make  an  observation. 

He  had  been  for  some  time  threading  a  lane  so  narrow  that 
he  could  touch  a  wall  with  either  hand  when  it  began  to  open 
out  and  go  sharply  downward.  Plainly  this  lay  no  longer  in 
the  direction  of  his  inn;  but  the  hope  of  a  little  more  light 
tempted  him  forward  to  reconnoiter.  The  lane  ended  in  a 
terrace  with  a  bartizan  wall,  which  gave  an  outlook  between 


504 


SHORT  STORIES 


high  houses,  as  out  of  an  cniljrasurc,  into  the  valley  lyin^  dark 
and  formless  several  hundred  feet  below.  Denis  looked  down, 
and  could  discern  a  few  tree-tops  waving  and  a  single  speck  of 
brightness  where  the  river  ran  across  a  weir.  The  weather  was 
clearing  up,  and  the  sky  had  lightened,  so  as  to  show  the  out- 
line of  the  heavier  clouds  and  the  dark  margin  of  the  hills.  By 
the  uncertain  glimmer,  the  house  on  his  left  hand  should  be  a 
place  of  some  pretensions;  it  was  surmounted  by  several  pin- 
nacles and  turret-tops;  the  round  stern  of  a  chapel,  with  a 
fringe  of  flying  ])uttresses,  projected  boldly  from  the  main  block  ; 
and  the  door  was  sheltered  under  a  deep  porch  carved  with 
figures  and  overhung  by  two  long  gargoyles.  The  windows 
of  the  chapel  gleamed  through  their  intricate  tracery  wath  a 
light  as  of  many  tapers,  and  threw  out  the  buttresses  and  the 
peaked  roof  in  a  more  intense  blackness  against  the  sky.  It 
was  plainly  the  hotel  of  some  great  family  of  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  and  as  it  reminded  Denis  of  a  town  house  of  his  own  at 
Bourges,  he  stood  for  some  time  gazing  up  at  it  and  mentally 
gauging  the  skill  of  the  architects  and  the  consideration  of  the 
two  families. 

There  seemed  to  be  no  issue  to  the  terrace  but  the  lane  by 
which  he  had  reached  it ;  he  could  only  retrace  his  steps,  but 
he  had  gained  some  notion  of  his  whereabouts,  and  hoped  by 
this  means  to  hit  the  main  thoroughfare  and  speedily  regain 
the  inn.  He  was  reckoning  without  that  chapter  of  accidents 
which  was  to  make  this  night  memorable  above  all  others  in 
his  career;  for  he  had  not  gone  back  above  a  hundred  yards 
before  he  saw  a  light  coming  to  meet  him,  and  heard  loud  voices 
speaking  together  in  the  echoing  narrows  of  the  lane.  It  was 
a  party  of  men-at-arms  going  the  night  roimd  with  torches. 
Denis  assured  himself  that  they  had  all  been  making  free  with 
the  wine-bowl,  and  were  in  no  mood  to  be  particular  about  safe- 
conducts  or  the  niceties  of  chivalrous  war.  It  was  as  like  as 
not  that  they  would  kill  him  like  a  dog  and  leave  him  where  he 
fell.  The  situation  was  inspiriting  but  nervous.  Their  own 
torches  would  conceal  him  from  sight,  he  reflected ;  and  he 
hoped  that  they  would  drown  the  noise  of  his  footsteps  with 


THE  SIRE  DE  MALETROIT'S  DOOR  505 

their  own  empty  voices.  If  he  were  but  fleet  and  silent,  he  might 
evade  their  notice  altogether. 

Unfortunately,  as  he  turned  to  beat  a  retreat,  his  foot  rolled 
upon  a  pebble ;  he  fell  against  the  wall  with  an  ejaculation,  and 
his  sword  rang  loudly  on  the  stones.  Two  or  three  voices  de- 
manded who  went  there  —  some  in  French,  some  in  English ; 
but  Denis  made  no  reply,  and  ran  the  faster  down  the  lane. 
Once  upon  the  terrace,  he  paused  to  look  back.  They  still 
kept  calling  after  him,  and  just  then  began  to  double  the  pace 
in  pursuit,  with  a  considerable  clank  of  armor,  and  great  tossing 
of  the  torchlight  to  and  fro  in  the  narrow  jaws  of  the  passage. 

Denis  cast  a  look  around  and  darted  into  the  porch.  There 
he  might  escape  observation,  or  —  if  that  were  too  much  to 
expect  —  was  in  a  capital  posture  whether  for  parley  or  defence. 
So  thinking,  he  drew  his  sword  and  tried  to  set  his  back  against 
the  door.  To  his  surprise,  it  yielded  behind  his  weight ;  and 
though  he  turned  in  a  moment,  continued  to  swing  back  on 
oiled  and  noiseless  hinges,  until  it  stood  wide  open  on  a  black 
interior.  When  things  fall  out  opportunely  for  the  person  con- 
cerned, he  is  not  apt  to  be  critical  about  the  how  or  why,  his 
own  immediate  personal  convenience  seeming  a  sufficient  reason 
for  the  strangest  oddities  and  revolutions  in  our  sublunary 
things ;  and  so  Denis,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  stepped 
within  and  partly  closed  the  door  behind  him  to  conceal  his 
place  of  refuge.  Nothing  was  further  from  his  thoughts  than 
to  close  it  altogether ;  but  for  some  inexplicable  reason  ■ —  per- 
haps by  a  spring  or  a  weight  —  the  ponderous  mass  of  oak 
whipped  itself  out  of  his  fingers  and  clanked  to,  with  a  formid- 
able rumble  and  a  noise  like  the  falling  of  an  automatic  bar. 

The  round,  at  that  very  moment,  debouched  upon  the  terrace 
and  proceeded  to  summon  him  with  shouts  and  curses.  He 
heard  them  ferreting  in  the  dark  corners;  the  stock  of  a  lance 
even  rattled  along  the  outer  surface  of  the  door  behind  which 
he  stood ;  but  these  gentlemen  were  in  too  high  a  humor  to  be 
long  delayed,  and  soon  made  off  down  a  corkscrew  pathway 
which  had  escaped  Denis's  observation,  and  passed  out  of  sight 
and  hearing  along  the  battlements  of  the  town. 


5o6  SHORT  STORIES 

Denis  breathed  again.  He  gave  them  a  few  minutes'  grace 
for  fear  of  accidents,  and  then  groped  about  for  some  means  of 
opening  the  door  and  slipping  forth  again.  The  inner  surface 
was  quite  smooth,  not  a  handle,  not  a  moulding,  not  a  projection 
of  any  sort.  He  got  his  linger  nails  round  the  edges  and  pulled, 
but  the  mass  was  immovable.  He  shook  it,  it  was  as  firm  as  a 
rock.  Denis  de  Beaulieu  frowned  and  gave  vent  to  a  little  noise- 
less whistle.  What  ailed  the  door?  he  wondered.  Why  was 
it  open  ?  How  came  it  to  shut  so  easily  and  so  effectually  after 
him  ?  There  was  something  obscure  and  underhand  about  all 
this,  that  was  little  to  the  young  man's  fancy.  It  looked  like  a 
snare ;  and  yet  who  could  suppose  a  snare  in  such  a  quiet  by- 
street and  in  a  house  of  so  prosperous  and  even  noble  an  e.xterior  ? 
And  yet  —  snare  or  no  snare,  intentionally  or  unintentionally  — 
here  he  was,  prettily  trapped ;  and  for  the  life  of  him  he  could 
see  no  way  out  of  it  again.  The  darkness  began  to  weigh  upon 
him.  He  gave  ear;  all  was  silent  without,  but  within  and 
close  by  he  seemed  to  catch  a  faint  sighing,  a  faint  sobbing  rustle, 
a  little  stealthy  creak  —  as  though  many  persons  were  at  his 
side,  holding  themselves  quite  still,  and  governing  even  their 
respiration  with  the  extreme  of  slyness.  The  idea  went  to  his 
vitals  with  a  shock,  and  he  faced  about  suddenly  as  if  to  defend 
his  life.  Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  became  aware  of  a  light 
about  the  level  of  his  eyes  and  at  some  distance  in  the  interior 
of  the  house  —  a  vertical  thread  of  light,  ^^  idening  towards  the 
bottom,  such  as  might  escape  between  two  wings  of  arras  over 
a  doorway.  To  see  anything  was  a  relief  to  Denis ;  it  was  like 
a  piece  of  solid  ground  to  a  man  laboring  in  a  morass ;  his  mind 
seized  upon  it  with  avidity ;  and  he  stood  staring  at  it  and  trying 
to  piece  together  some  logical  conception  of  his  surroundings. 
Plainly  there  was  a  flight  of  steps  ascending  from  his  own  level 
to  that  of  this  illuminated  doorway ;  and  indeed  he  thought  he 
could  make  out  another  thread  of  light,  as  fine  as  a  needle  and 
as  faint  as  phosphorescence,  which  might  ver^'  well  be  reflected 
along  the  polished  wood  of  a  hand-rail.  Since  he  had  begun  to 
suspect  that  he  was  not  alone,  his  heart  had  continued  to  beat 
with  smothering  violence,  and  an  intolerable  desire  for  action 


THE  SIRE  BE  MALETROITS  DOOR  507 

of  any  sort  had  possessed  itself  of  his  spirit.  He  was  in  deadly 
peril,  he  believed.  What  could  be  more  natural  than  to  mount 
the  staircase,  lift  the  curtain,  and  confront  his  difl&culty  at  once  ? 
At  least  he  would  be  dealing  with  something  tangible ;  at  least 
he  would  be  no  longer  in  the  dark.  He  stepped  slowly  forward 
with  outstretched  hands,  until  his  foot  struck  the  bottom  step ; 
then  he  rapidly  scaled  the  stairs,  stood  for  a  moment  to  compose 
his  expression,  lifted  the  arras,  and  went  in. 

He  found  himself  in  a  large  apartment  of  polished  stone. 
There  were  three  doors ;  one  on  each  of  three  sides ;  all  simi- 
larly curtained  with  tapestry.  The  fourth  side  was  occupied 
by  two  large  windows  and  a  great  stone  chimneypiece,  carved 
with  the  arms  of  the  Maletroits.  Denis  recognized  the  bear- 
ings, and  was  gratified  to  find  himself  in  such  good  hands.  The 
room  was  strongly  illuminated;  but  it  contained  little  furniture 
except  a  heavy  table  and  a  chair  or  two,  the  hearth  was  inno- 
cent of  fire,  and  the  pavement  was  but  sparsely  strewn  with 
rushes  clearly  many  days  old. 

On  a  high  chair  beside  the  chimney,  and  directly  facing  Denis 
as  he  entered,  sat  a  little  old  gentleman  in  a  fur  tippet.  He 
sat  with  his  legs  crossed  and  his  hands  folded,  and  a  cup  of  spiced 
wine  stood  by  his  elbow  on  a  bracket  on  the  wall.  His  coun- 
tenance had  a  strongly  masculine  cast ;  not  properly  human, 
but  such  as  we  see  in  the  bull,  the  goat,  or  the  domestic  boar ; 
something  equivocal  and  wheedling,  something  greedy,  brutal, 
and  dangerous.  The  upper  lip  was  inordinately  full,  as  though 
swollen  by  a  blow  or  a  toothache;  and  the  smile,  the  peaked 
eyebrows,  and  the  small,  strong  eyes  were  c^uaintly  and  almost 
comically  evil  in  expression.  Beautiful  white  hair  hung  straight 
all  round  his  head,  like  a  saint's,  and  fell  in  a  single  curl  upon 
the  tippet.  His  beard  and  moustache  were  the  pink  of  venerable 
sweetness.  Age,  probably  in  consequence  of  inordinate  pre- 
cautions, had  left  no  mark  upon  his  hands ;  and  the  Maletroit 
hand  was  famous.  It  would  be  difficult  to  imagine  anything 
at  once  so  fleshy  and  so  delicate  in  design ;  the  taper,  sensual 
fingers  were  like  those  of  one  of  Leonardo's  women ;  the  fork 
of  the  thumb  made  a  dimpled  protuberance  when  closed;   the 


5oS  SHORT  STORIES 

nails  were  perfectly  shaped,  and  of  a  dead,  surprising  whiteness. 
It  rendered  his  aspect  tenfold  more  redoubtable,  that  a  man  with 
hands  like  these  should  keep  them  devoutly  folded  like  a  virgin 
martNT  —  that  a  man  with  so  intent  and  startling  an  expression 
of  face  should  sit  patiently  on  his  seat  and  contemplate  people 
with  an  unwinking  stare,  like  a  god,  or  a  god's  statue.  His 
quiescence  seemed  ironical  and  treacherous,  it  fitted  so  poorly 
with  his  looks. 

Such  was  Alain,  Sire  de  Maletroit. 

Denis  and  he  looked  silently  at  each  other  for  a  second  or 
two. 

"Pray  step  in,"  said  the  Sire  de  Maletroit.  "I  have  been 
expecting  you  all  the  evening." 

He  had  not  risen,  but  he  accompanied  his  words  with  a  smile 
and  a  slight  but  courteous  inclination  of  the  head.  Partly  from 
the  smile,  partly  from  the  strange  musical  murmur  with  which 
the  Sire  prefaced  his  observation,  Denis  felt  a  strong  shudder 
of  disgust  go  through  his  marrow.  And  what  with  disgust 
and  honest  confusion  of  mind,  he  could  scarcely  get  words 
together  in  reply. 

"I  fear,"  he  said,  "that  this  is  a  double  accident.  I  am  not 
the  person  you  suppose  me.  It  seems  you  were  looking  for  a 
visit ;  but  for  my  part,  nothing  was  further  from  my  thoughts 
—  nothing  could  be  more  contrary  to  my  wishes  —  than  this 
intrusion." 

"Well,  well,"  replied  the  old  gentleman  indulgently,  "here 
you  are,  which  is  the  main  point.  Seat  yourself,  my  friend, 
and  put  yourself  entirely  at  your  ease.  We  shall  arrange  our 
little  aiTairs  presently." 

Denis  perceived  that  the  matter  was  still  complicated  with 
some  misconception,  and  he  hastened  to  continue  his  explana- 
tions. 

"Your  door  .  .  ."he  began. 

"About  my  door?"  asked  the  other,  raising  his  peaked  eye- 
browns.  "A  little  piece  of  ingenuity."  And  he  shrugged  his 
shoulder.  "A  hospitable  fancy!  By  your  own  account,  you 
were  not  desirous  of  making  my  acquaintance.     We  old  people 


THE  SIRE  DE  MALETROITS  DOOR  509 

look  for  such  reluctance  now  and  then ;  when  it  touches  oui 
honor,  we  cast  about  until  we  find  some  way  of  overcoming  it. 
You  arrive  uninvited,  but,  believe  me,  very  welcome." 

"You  persist  in  error,  sir,"  said  Denis.  "There  can  be  no 
question  between  you  and  me.  I  am  a  stranger  in  this  country- 
side. My  name  is  Denis,  damoiseau  de  Beaulieu.  If  you  see 
me  in  your  house,  it  is  only  — " 

"My  young  friend,"  interrupted  the  other,  "you  will  permit 
me  to  have  my  ov.-'n  ideas  on  that  subject.  They  probably  differ 
from  yours  at  the  present  moment,"  he  added  with  a  leer,  "but 
time  will  show  which  of  us  is  in  the  right." 

Denis  was  convinced  he  had  to  do  with  a  lunatic.  He  seated 
himself  with  a  shrug,  content  to  wait  the  upshot ;  and  a  pause 
ensued,  during  which  he  thought  he  could  distinguish  a  hurried 
gabbling  as  of  prayer  from  behind  the  arras  immediately  oppo- 
site him.  Sometimes  there  seemed  to  be  but  one  person  engaged, 
sometimes  two ;  and  the  vehemence  of  the  voice,  low  as  it  was, 
seemed  to  indicate  either  great  haste  or  an  agony  of  spirit. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  this  piece  of  tapestry  covered  the  en- 
trance to  the  chapel  he  had  noticed  from  without. 

The  old  gentleman  meanwhile  surveyed  Denis  from  head  to 
foot  with  a  smile,  and  from  time  to  time  emitted  little  noises 
like  a  bird  or  a  mouse,  which  seemed  to  indicate  a  high  degree 
of  satisfaction.  This  state  of  matters  became  rapidly  insup- 
portable ;  and  Denis,  to  put  an  end  to  it,  remarked  politely 
that  the  wind  had  gone  down. 

The  old  gentleman  fell  into  a  fit  of  silent  laughter,  so  pro- 
longed and  violent  that  he  became  c^uite  red  in  the  face.  Denis 
got  upon  his  feet  at  once,  and  put  on  his  hat  with  a  flourish. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "if  you  are  in  your  wits,  you  have  affronted 
me  grossly.  If  you  are  out  of  them,  I  flatter  myself  I  can  find 
better  employment  for  my  brains  than  to  talk  with  lunatics. 
My  conscience  is  clear ;  you  have  made  a  fool  of  me  from  the 
first  moment ;  you  have  refused  to  hear  my  explanations ;  and 
now  there  is  no  power  under  God  will  make  me  stay  here  any 
longer;  and  if  I  cannot  make  my  way  out  in  a  more  decent 
fashion,  I  will  hack  your  door  in  j)ieces  with  my  sword." 


5IO 


SHORT  STORIES 


The  Sire  de  Maletroit  raised  his  right  hand  and  wagged  it 
at  Denis  with  the  fore  and  httle  fingers  extended. 

"My  dear  nepliew,"  he  said,  "sit  down." 

"Nephew!"  retorted  Denis,  "you  lie  in  your  throat;"  and 
he  snapped  his  fmgers  in  his  face. 

"  Sit  down,  you  rogue  ! "  cried  the  old  gentleman,  in  a  sudden 
harsh  voice,  like  the  barking  of  a  dog.  "Do  you  fancy,"  he 
went  on,  "that  when  I  had  made  ray  little  contrivance  for  the 
door  I  had  stopped  short  with  that  ?  If  you  prefer  to  be  bound 
hand  and  foot  till  your  bones  ache,  rise  and  try  to  go  away.  If 
r-ou  choose  to  remain  a  free  young  buck,  agreeably  conversing 
with  an  old  gentleman  —  why,  sit  where  you  are  in  peace,  and 
God  be  with  you." 

"Do  you  mean  I  am  a  prisoner?"  demanded  Denis. 

"I  state  the  facts,"  replied  the  other.  "I  would  rather 
leave  the  conclusion  to  yourself." 

Denis  sat  down  again.  Externally  he  managed  to  keep  pretty 
calm ;  but  within,  he  was  now  boiling  with  anger,  now  chilled 
with  apprehension.  He  no  longer  felt  convinced  that  he  was 
deaUng  with  a  madman.  And  if  the  old  gentleman  was  sane, 
what,  in  God's  name,  had  he  to  look  for?  What  absurd  or 
tragical  adventure  had  befallen  him  ?  What  coimtenance  was 
he  to  assume  ? 

While  he  was  thus  unpleasantly  reflecting,  the  arras  that 
overhung  the  chapel  door  was  raised,  and  a  tall  priest  in  his 
robes  came  forth  and,  giving  a  long,  keen  stare  at  Denis,  said 
something  in  an  undertone  to  Sire  de  Maletroit. 

"She  is  in  a  better  frame  of  spirit  ?"  asked  the  latter. 

"She  is  more  resigned,  messire,"  replied  the  priest. 

"Xow  the  Lord  help  her,  she  is  hard  to  please !"  sneered  the 
old  gentleman.  "A  likely  stripling — not  ill-born — and  of  her 
own  choosing,  too?     WTiy,  what  more  would  the  jade  have?" 

"The  situation  is  not  usual  for  a  young  damsel,"  said  the 
other,  "and  somewhat  tr>'ing  to  her  blushes." 

"  She  should  have  thought  of  that  before  she  began  the  dance  ! 
It  was  none  of  my  choosing,  God  knows  that :  but  since  she  is 
in  it,  by  our  lady,  she  shall  carry  it  to  the  end."    And  then 


THE  SIRE  DE  MALETROITS  DOOR  511 

addressing  Denis,  "Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,"  he  asked,  ''may  I 
present  you  to  my  niece?  She  has  been  waiting  your  arrival, 
I  may  say,  with  even  greater  impatience  than  myself." 

Denis  had  resigned  himself  with  a  good  grace  —  all  he  desired 
was  to  know  the  worst  of  it  as  speedily  as  possible ;  so  he  rose 
at  once,  and  bowed  in  acquiescence.  The  Sire  de  Maletroit 
followed  his  example  and  Hmped,  with  the  assistance  of  the 
chaplain's  arm,  towards  the  chapel-door.  The  priest  pulled 
aside  the  arras,  and  all  three  entered.  The  building  had  con- 
siderable architectural  pretensions.  A  light  groining  sprang 
from  six  stout  columns,  and  hung  down  in  two  rich  pendants 
from  the  centre  of  the  vault.  The  place  terminated  behind 
the  altar  in  a  round  end,  embossed  and  honeycombed  with  a 
superfluity  of  ornament  in  relief,  and  pierced  by  many  little 
windows  shaped  like  stars,  trefoils,  or  wheels.  These  windows 
were  imperfectly  glazed,  so  that  the  night  air  circulated  freely 
in  the  chapel.  The  tapers,  of  which  there  must  have  been  half 
a  hundred  burning  on  the  altar,  were  unmercifully  blown  about ; 
and  the  light  went  through  many  different  phases  of  brilliancy 
and  semi-eclipse.  On  the  steps  in  front  of  the  altar  knelt  a 
a  young  girl  richly  attired  as  a  bride.  A  chill  settled  over  Denis 
as  he  observed  her  costume ;  he  fought  with  desperate  energy 
against  the  conclusion  that  was  being  thrust  upon  his  mind; 
it  could  not  —  it  should  not  —  be  as  he  feared. 

"Blanche,"  said  the  Sire,  in  his  most  flute-like  tones,  "I 
have  brought  a  friend  to  see  you,  my  little  girl ;  turn  round  and 
give  him  your  pretty  hand.  It  is  good  to  be  devout ;  but  it  is 
necessary  to  be  polite,  my  niece." 

The  girl  rose  to  her  feet  and  turned  toward  the  newcomers. 
She  moved  all  of  a  piece ;  and  shame  and  exhaustion  were  ex- 
pressed in  every  line  of  her  fresh  young  body ;  and  she  held  her 
head  down  and  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  pavement,  as  she  came 
slowly  forward.  In  the  course  of  her  advance,  her  eyes  fell 
upon  Denis  de  Beaulieu's  feet  —  feet  of  which  he  was  justly  vain, 
be  it  remarked,  and  wore  in  the  most  elegant  accoutrement 
even  while  travelling.  She  paused  —  started,  as  if  his  yellow 
boots  had  conveyed  .some  shocking  meaning  —  and  glanced 


512  SHORT  STORIES 

suddenly  up  intt)  the  wearer's  countenance.     Their  eyes  met 
shame  gave  place  to  horror  and  terror  in  her  looks ;  the  blood 
left  her  lips ;   with  a  piercing  scream  she  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  sank  upon  the  chapel  lloor. 

"That  is  not  the  man  !"  she  cried.  "My  uncle,  that  is  not 
the  man  !" 

The  Sire  de  Maletroit  chirped  agreeably.  "Of  course  not," 
he  said,  "I  expected  as  much.  It  was  so  unfortunate  you  could 
not  remember  his  name." 

■•Indeed,"  she  cried,  "indeed,  I  have  never  seen  this  person 
till  tliis  moment  —  I  have  never  so  much  as  set  eyes  upon  him 
—  I  never  wish  to  see  him  again.  Sir,"  she  said,  turning  to 
Denis,  "if  you  are  a  gentleman,  you  will  bear  me  out.  Have  I 
ever  seen  you  —  have  you  ever  seen  me  —  before  this  accursed 
hour?" 

"To  speak  for  myself,  I  have  never  bad  that  pleasure,"  an- 
swered the  young  man.  "This  is  the  first  time,  messire,  that  I 
have  met  with  your  engaging  niece." 

The  old  gentleman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  am  distressed  to  hear  it,"  he  said.  "But  it  is  never  too 
late  to  begin.  I  had  little  more  acquaintance  with  my  own 
late  lady  ere  I  married  her ;  which  proves,"  he  added,  with  a 
grimace,  "that  these  impromptu  marriages  may  often  produce 
an  excellent  understanding  in  the  long  run.  As  the  bridegroom 
is  to  have  a  voice  in  the  matter,  I  will  give  him  two  hours  to  make 
up  for  lost  time  before  we  proceed  with  the  ceremony."  And 
he  turned  toward  the  door,  followed  by  the  clergyman. 

The  girl  \Yas  on  her  feet  in  a  moment.  "My  uncle,  you  can- 
not be  in  earnest,"  she  said.  "I  declare  before  God  I  w-ill  stab 
myself  rather  than  be  forced  on  that  young  man.  The  heart 
rises  at  it ;  God  forbids  such  marriages ;  you  dishonor  your 
white  hair.  Oh,  my  uncle,  pity  me  !  There  is  not  a  woman  in 
all  the  world  but  would  prefer  death  to  such  a  nuptial.  Is  it 
possible,"  she  added,  faltering  —  "is  it  possible  that  you  do 
not  believe  me  —  that  you  still  think  this"  —  and  she  pointed 
at  Denis  with  a  tremor  of  anger  and  contempt  —  "that  you 
still  think  this  to  be  the  man?" 


THE  SIRE  DE  MALETROITS  DOOR  513 

** Frankly,'"  said  the  old  gentleman,  pausing  on  the  threshold, 
''I  do.  But  let  me  explain  to  you  once  for  all,  Blanche  de 
Maletroit,  my  way  of  thinking  about  this  affair.  When  you 
took  it  into  your  head  to  dishonor  my  family  and  the  name  that 
I  have  borne,  in  peace  and  war,  for  more  than  three-score  years, 
you  forfeited,  not  only  the  right  to  question  my  designs,  but 
that  of  looking  me  in  the  face.  If  your  father  had  been  alive, 
he  would  have  spat  on  you  and  turned  you  out  of  doors.  His 
was  the  hand  of  iron.  You  may  bless  your  God  you  have  only 
to  deal  with  the  hand  of  velvet,  mademoiselle.  It  was  my  duty 
to  get  you  married  without  delay.  Out  of  pure  good-will,  I 
have  tried  to  find  your  own  gallant  for  you.  And  I  believe  I 
have  succeeded.  But  before  God  and  all  the  holy  angels, 
Blanche  de  Maletroit,  if  I  have  not,  I  care  not  one  jack-straw. 
So  let  me  recommend  you  to  be  polite  to  our  young  friend ;  for 
upon  my  word,  your  next  groom  may  be  less  appetizing." 

And  with  that  he  went  out,  with  the  chaplain  at  his  heels; 
and  the  arras  fell  behind  the  pair. 

The  girl  turned  upon  Denis  with  flashing  eyes. 

"And  what,  sir,"  she  demanded,  "may  be  the  meaning  of 
all  this?" 

"God  knows,"  returned  Denis,  gloomily.  "I  am  a  prisoner 
in  this  house,  which  seems  full  of  mad  people.  More  I  know 
not ;   and  nothing  do  I  understand." 

"And  pray  how  came  you  here?"  she  asked. 

He  told  her  as  briefly  as  he  could.  "  For  the  rest,"  he  added, 
"perhaps  you  will  follow  my  example,  and  tell  me  the  answer 
to  all  these  riddles,  and  what,  in  God's  name,  is  like  to  be  the 
end  of  it." 

She  stood  silent  for  a  little,  and  he  could  see  her  lips  tremble 
and  her  tearless  eyes  burn  with  a  feverish  lustre.  Then  she 
pressed  her  forehead  in  both  hands. 

"Alas,  how  my  head  aches!"  she  said  wearily  —  "to  say 
nothing  of  my  poor  heart !  But  it  is  due  to  you  to  know  my 
story,  unmaidenly  as  it  must  seem.  I  am  called  Blanche  de 
Maletroit ;  I  have  been  without  father  or  mother  for  —  oh ! 
for  as  long  as  I  can  recollect,  and  indeed  I  have  been  most  un- 


514  SHORT  STORIES 

happy  all  my  life.  Three  months  ago  a  young  captain  began 
to  stand  near  me  every  day  in  church.  I  could  see  that  I  pleased 
him  ;  1  am  much  to  blame,  but  I  was  so  glad  that  anyone  should 
love  me ;  and  when  he  passed  me  a  letter,  I  took  it  home  with 
me  and  read  it  with  great  pleasure.  Since  that  time  he  has 
written  many.  He  was  so  anxious  to  speak,  with  me,  poor  fel- 
low !  and  kept  asking  me  to  leave  the  door  open  some  evening 
that  we  might  have  two  words  upon  the  stair.  For  he  knew 
how  much  my  uncle  trusted  me."  She  gave  something  like  a 
sob  at  that,  and  it  was  a  moment  before  she  could  go  on.  ''  My 
uncle  is  a  hard  man,  but  he  is  very  shrewd,"  she  said  at  last. 
"  He  has  performed  many  feats  in  war,  an,d  was  a  great  person 
at  court,  and  much  trusted  by  Queen  Isabeau  in  old  days.  How 
he  came  to  suspect  me  I  cannot  tell ;  but  it  is  hard  to  keep  any- 
thing from  his  knowledge ;  and  this  morning,  as  we  came  from 
mass,  he  took  my  hand  into  his,  forced  it  open,  and  read  my 
Uttle  billet,  walking  by  my  side  all  the  while.  When  he  finished, 
he  gave  it  back  to  me  with  great  politeness.  It  contained  an- 
other recjuest  to  have  the  door  left  open ;  and  this  has  been  the 
ruin  of  us  all.  My  uncle  kept  me  strictly  in  my  room  until 
evening,  and  then  ordered  me  to  dress  myself  as  you  see  me  — 
a  hard  mockery  for  a  young  girl,  do  you  not  think  so?  I  sup- 
pose, when  he  could  not  prevail  with  me  to  tell  him  the  young 
captain's  name,  he  must  have  laid  a  trap  for  him :  into  which, 
alas !  you  have  fallen  in  the  anger  of  God.  I  looked  for  much 
confusion ;  for  how  could  I  tell  whether  he  was  willing  to  take 
me  for  his  wife  on  these  sharp. terms?  He  might  have  been 
trifling  with  me  from  the  first;  or  I  might  have  made  myself 
too  cheap  in  his  eyes.  But  truly  I  had  not  looked  for  such  a 
shameful  punishment  as  this !  I  could  not  think  that  God 
would  let  a  girl  be  so  disgraced  before  a  young  man.  And  now 
I  tell  you  all ;  and  I  can  scarcely  hope  that  you  will  not  despise 
me." 

Denis  made  her  a  respectful  inclination. 

"Madam,"  he  said,  "you  have  honored  me  by  your  confi- 
dence. It  remains  for  me  to  prove  that  I  am  not  unworthy  of 
the  honor.    Is  Messire  de  Maletroit  at  hand  ?  " 


THE  SIRE  DE  MALETROIT'S  DOOR  515 

"I  believe  he  is  writing  in  the  salle  without,"  she  answered. 

"May  I  lead  you  thither,  madam?"  asked  Denis,  offering 
his  hand  with  his  most  courtly  bearing. 

She  accepted  it;  and  the  pair  passed  out  of  the  chapel, 
Blanche  in  a  very  drooping  and  shamefast  condition,  but  Denis 
strutting  and  rufiling  in  the  consciousness  of  a  mission,  and  the 
boyish  certainty  of  accomplishing  it  with  honor. 

The  Sire  de  Maletroit  rose  to  meet  them  with  an  ironical 
obeisance. 

''Sir,"  said  Denis,  with  the  grandest  possible  air,  "I  beheve 
I  am  to  have  some  say  in  the  matter  of  this  marriage ;  and  let 
me  tell  you  at  once,  I  will  be  no  party  to  forcing  the  inclination 
of  this  young  lady.  Had  it  been  freely  offered  to  me,  I  should 
have  been  proud  to  accept  her  hand,  for  I  perceive  she  is  as  good 
as  she  is  beautiful ;  but  as  things  are,  I  have  now  the  honor, 
messire,  of  refusing." 

Blanche  looked  at  him  with  gratitude  in  her  eyes ;  but  the 
old  gentleman  only  smiled  and  smiled,  until  his  smile  grew  posi- 
tively sickening  to  Denis. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,  that  you  do 
not  perfectly  understand  the  choice  I  have  offered  you.  Fol- 
low me,  I  beseech  you,  to  this  window."  And  he  led  the  way 
to  one  of  the  large  windows  which  stood  open  on  the  night. 
"You  observe,"  he  went  on,  "there  is  an  iron  ring  in  the  upper 
masonry,  and  reeved  through  that,  a  very  efficacious  rope. 
Now,  mark  my  words :  if  you  should  find  your  disinclination 
to  my  niece's  person  insurmountable,  I  shall  have  you  hanged 
out  of  this  window  before  sunrise.  I  shall  only  proceed  to  such 
an  extremity  with  the  greatest  regret,  you  may  believe  me. 
For  it  is  not  at  all  your  death  that  I  desire,  but  my  niece's  es- 
tablishment in  life.  At  the  same  time,  it  must  come  to  that  if 
you  prove  obstinate.  Your  family.  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,  is 
very  well  in  its  way ;  but  if  you  sprang  from  Charlemagne,  you 
should  not  refuse  the  hand  of  a  Maletroit  with  impunity  —  not 
if  she  had  been  as  common  as  the  Paris  road  —  not  if  she  were 
as  hideous  as  the  gargoyle  over  my  door.  Neither  my  niece 
nor  you,  nor  my  own  private  feelings,  move  me  at  all  in  this 


5l6  SHORT  STORIES 

matter.  Tlu-  honor  of  my  house  has  been  compromised ;  I 
believe  you  to  be  tlie  guilty  person,  at  least  you  are  now  in  the 
secret ;  and  you  can  hardly  wonder  if  I  request  you  to  wipe 
out  the  stain.  If  you  will  not,  your  blood  be  on  your  own  head  ! 
It  will  be  no  great  satisfaction  to  me  to  have  your  interesting 
relics  kicking  their  heels  in  the  breeze  below  my  windows,  but 
half  a  loaf  is  better  than  no  bread,  and  if  I  cannot  cure  the  dis- 
honor, I  shall  at  least  stop  the  scandal." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"I  believe  there  are  other  ways  of  settling  such  imbroglios 
among  gentlemen,"  said  Denis.  "You  wear  a  sword,  and  I 
hear  you  have  used  it  with  distinction." 

The  Sire  de  Maletroit  made  a  signal  to  the  chaplain,  who 
crossed  the  room  with  long  silent  strides  and  raised  the  arras 
over  the  third  of  the  three  doors.  It  was  only  a  moment  before 
he  let  it  fall  again ;  but  Denis  had  time  to  see  a  dusky  passage 
full  of  armed  men. 

"When  I  was  a  little  younger,  I  should  have  been  delighted 
to  honor  you,  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,"  said  Sire  Alain;  "but 
I  am  now  too  old.  Faithful  retainers  are  the  sinews  of  age,  and 
I  must  employ  the  strength  I  have.  This  is  one  of  the  hardest 
things  to  swallow  as  a  man  grows  up  in  years ;  but  with  a  little 
patience,  even  this  becomes  habitual.  You  and  the  lady  seem 
to  prefer  the  salle  for  what  remains  of  your  two  hours ;  and  as  I 
have  no  desire  to  cross  your  preference,  I  shall  resign  it  to  your 
use  with  all  the  pleasure  in  the  world.  No  haste  !"  he  added, 
holding  up  his  hand,  as  he  saw  a  dangerous  look  come  into  Denis 
de  Beaulieu's  face.  "If  your  mind  revolt  against  hanging,  it 
will  be  time  enough  two  hours  hence  to  throw  yourself  out  of 
the  window  or  upon  the  pikes  of  my  retainers.  Two  hours  of 
life  are  always  two  hours.  A  great  many  things  may  turn  up 
in  even  as  little  a  while  as  that.  And,  besides,  if  I  understand 
her  appearance,  my  niece  has  something  to  say  to  you.  You 
will  not  disfigure  your  last  hours  by  a  want  of  politeness  to  a 
lady?" 

Denis  looked  at  Blanche,  and  she  made  him  an  imploring 
gesture. 


THE  SIRE  DE  MALETROITS  DOOR  517 

It  is  likely  that  the  old  gentleman  was  hugely  pleased  at  this 
symptom  of  an  understanding ;  for  he  smiled  on  both,  and  added 
sweetly:  "If  you  will  give  me  your  word  of  honor,  Monsieur 
de  Beaulieu,  to  await  my  return  at  the  end  of  the  two  hours  be- 
fore attempting  anything  desperate,  I  shall  withdraw  my  re- 
tainers, and  let  you  speak  in  greater  privacy  with  mademoiselle." 

Denis  again  glanced  at  the  girl,  who  seemed  to  beseech. him 
to  agree. 

"I  give  you  my  word  of  honor,"  he  said. 

Messire  de  Maletroit  bowed,  and  proceeded  to  limp  about 
the  apartment,  clearing  his  throat  the  while  with  that  odd  musi- 
cal chirp  which  had  already  grown  so  irritating  in  the  ears  of 
Denis  de  Beaulieu.  He  first  possessed  himself  of  some  papers 
which  lay  upon  the  table;  then  he  went  to  the  mouth  of  the 
passage  and  appeared  to  give  an  order  to  the  men  behind  the 
arras;  and  lastly  he  hobbled  out  through  the  door  by  which 
Denis  had  come  in,  turning  upon  the  threshold  to  address  a 
last  smiling  bow  to  the  young  couple,  and  followed  by  the  chap- 
lain with  a  hand-lamp. 

No  sooner  were  they  alone  than  Blanche  advanced  towards 
Denis  with  her  hands  extended.  Her  face  was  flushed  and  ex- 
cited, and  her  eyes  shone  with  tears. 

"You  shall  not  die  !"  she  cried,  "you  shall  marry  me  after 
all." 

"You  seem  to  think,  madam,"  replied  Denis,  "that  I  stand 
much  in  fear  of  death." 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  she  said,  "I  see  you  are  no  poltroon.  It  is 
for  my  own  sake  —  I  could  not  bear  to  have  you  slain  for  such 
a  scruple." 

"I  am  afraid,"  returned  Denis,  "that  you  underrate  the  diffi- 
culty, madam.  What  you  may  be  too  generous  to  refuse,  I 
may  be  too  proud  to  accept.  In  a  moment  of  noble  feeling 
towards  me,  you  forgot  what  you  perhaps  owe  to  others." 

He  had  the  decency  to  keep  his  eyes  on  the  floor  as  he  said 
this,  and  after  he  had  finished,  so  as  not  to  spy  upon  her  con- 
fusion. She  stood  silent  for  a  moment,  then  walked  suddenly 
away,  and  falUng  on  her  uncle's  chair,  fairly  burst  out  sobbing. 


5i8  SHORT  STORIES 

Denis  was  in  the  acme  of  embarrassment.  He  looked  round, 
as  if  to  seek  for  inspiration,  and  seeing  a  stool,  plumped  down 
upon  it  for  something  to  do.  There  he  sat,  playing  with  the 
guard  of  his  rapier,  and  wishing  himself  dead  a  thousand  times 
over,  and  buried  in  the  nastiest  kitchen-heap  in  France.  His 
eyes  wandered  round  the  apartment,  but  found  nothing  to  arrest 
them.  There  were  such  wide  spaces  between  furniture,  the 
light  fell  so  badly  and  cheerlessly  over  all,  the  dark  outside  air 
looked  in  so  coldly  through  the  windows,  that  he  thought  he 
had  never  seen  a  church  so  vast,  nor  a  tomb  so  melancholy. 
The  regular  sobs  of  Blanche  de  Maletroit  measured  out  the  time 
like  the  ticking  of  a  clock.  He  read  the  device  upon  the  shield 
over  and  over  again,  until  his  eyes  became  obscured ;  he  stared 
into  shadowy  corners  until  he  imagined  they  were  swarming 
with  horrible  animals ;  and  every  now  and  again  he  awoke  vnth  a 
start,  to  remember  that  his  last  two  hours  were  running,  and 
death  was  on  the  march. 

Oftener  and  oftener,  as  the  time  went  on,  did  his  glance 
settle  on  the  girl  herself.  Her  face  was  bowed  forward  and 
covered  with  her  hands,  and  she  was  shaken  at  intervals  by 
the  convulsive  hiccough  of  grief.  Even  thus  she  was  not  an 
unpleasant  object  to  dwell  upon,  so  plump  and  yet  so  fine,  with 
a  warm  brown  skin,  and  the  most  beautiful  hair,  Denis  thought, 
in  the  whole  world  of  womankind.  Her  hands  were  like  her 
uncle's ;  but  they  were  more  in  place  at  the  end  of  her  young 
arms,  and  looked  infinitely  soft  and  caressing.  He  remembered 
how  her  blue  eyes  had  shone  upon  him,  full  of  anger,  pity,  and 
innocence.  And  the  more  he  dwelt  on  her  perfections,  the 
uglier  death  looked,  and  the  more  deeply  was  he  smitten  with 
penitence  at  her  continued  tears.  Now  he  felt  that  no  man 
could  ha\-e  the  courage  to  leave  a  world  which  contained  so 
beautiful  a  creature ;  and  now  he  would  have  given  forty  min- 
utes of  his  last  hour  to  have  unsaid  his  cruel  speech. 

Suddenly  a  hoarse  and  ragged  peal  of  cockcrow  rose  to  their 
ears  from  the  dark  valley  below  the  windows.  And  this  shat- 
tering noise  in  the  silence  of  all  around  was  like  a  light  in  a 
dark  place,  and  shook  them  both  out  of  their  reflections. 


THE  SIRE  DE  MALETROITS  DOOR  519 

"Alas,  can  I  do  nothing  to  help  you?"  she  said,  looking  up. 

"Madam,"  replied  Denis,  with  a  fine  irrelevancy,  "if  I  have 
said  anything  to  wound  you,  believe  me,  it  was  for  your  own  sake 
and  not  for  mine." 

She  thanked  him  with  a  tearful  look. 

"I  feel  your  position  cruelly,"  he  went  on.  "The  world 
has  been  bitter  hard  on  you.  Your  uncle  is  a  disgrace  to  man- 
kind. Believe  me,  madam,  there  is  no  young  gentleman  in 
all  France  but  would  be  glad  of  my  opportunity,  to  die  in  doing 
you  a  momentary  service." 

"I  know  already  that  you  can  be  very  brave  and  generous," 
she  answered.  "What  I  want  to  know  is  whether  I  can  serve 
you  —  now  or  afterwards,"  she  added,  with  a  quaver. 

"Most  certainly,"  he  answered  with  a  smile.  "Let  me  sit 
beside  you  as  if  I  were  a  friend,  instead  of  a  foolish  intruder; 
try  to  forget  how  awkwardly  we  are  placed  to  one  another ;  make 
my  last  moments  go  pleasantly ;  and  you  will  do  me  the  chief 
service  possible." 

"You  are  very  gallant,"  she  added,  with  a  yet  deeper  sadness 
.  .  .  "very  gallant  .  .  .  and  it  somehow  pains  me.  But 
draw  nearer,  if  you  please ;  and  if  you  find  anything  to  say  to 
me,  you  will  at  least  make  certain  of  a  very  friendly  listener. 
Ah  !  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,"  she  broke  forth  —  "ah  !  Monsieur 
de  Beaulieu,  how  can  I  look  you  in  the  face?"  And  she  fell 
to  weeping  again  with  a  renewed  effusion. 

"Madam,"  said  Denis,  taking  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  "reflect 
on  the  little  time  I  have  before  me,  and  the  great  bitterness  into 
which  I  am  cast  by  the  sight  of  your  distress.  Spare  me,  in  my 
last  moments,  the  spectacle  of  what  I  cannot  cure  even  with 
the  sacrifice  of  my  life." 

"I  am  very  selfish,"  answered  Blanche.  "I  will  be  braver. 
Monsieur  de  Beaulieu,  for  your  sake.  But  think  if  I  can  do 
you  no  kindness  in  the  future  —  if  you  have  no  friends  to  whom 
I  could  carry  your  adieux.  Charge  me  as  heavily  as  you  can ; 
every  burden  will  lighten,  by  so  little,  the  invaluable  gratitude 
I  owe  you.  Put  it  in  my  power  to  do  something  more  for  you 
than  weep." 


520  SHORT  STORII-IS 

"My  mcUhcr  is  niarrittl  a^ain,  and  has  a  young  family  to 
care  for.  My  brother  Guicharti  will  inherit  my  fiefs ;  and  if  I 
am  not  in  error,  that  will  content  him  amply  for  my  death. 
Life  is  a  little  vapor  that  passeth  away,  as  we  are  told  by  those 
in  holy  orders.  When  a  man  is  in  a  fair  way  and  sees  all  life 
open  in  front  of  him,  he  seems  to  himself  to  make  a  very  im- 
portant figure  in  the  world.  His  horse  whinnies  to  him ;  the 
trumpets  blow  and  the  girls  look  out  of  window  as  he  rides  into 
town  before  his  company ;  he  receives  many  assurances  of  trust 
and  regard  —  sometimes  by  express  in  a  letter  —  sometimes 
face  to  face,  with  persons  of  great  consequence  falling  on  his 
neck.  It  is  not  wonderful  if  his  head  is  turned  for  a  time.  But 
once  he  is  dead,  were  he  as  brave  as  Hercules  or  as  wise  as  Solo- 
mon, he  is  soon  forgotten.  It  is  not  ten  years  since  my  father 
fell,  with  many  other  knights  around  him,  in  a  very  fierce  en- 
counter, and  I  do  not  think  that  any  one  of  them,  nor  so  much 
as  the  name  of  the  fight,  is  now  remembered.  No,  no,  madam, 
the  nearer  you  come  to  it,  you  see  that  death  is  a  dark  and 
dusty  corner,  where  a  man  gets  into  his  tomb  and  has  the  door 
shut  after  him  till  the  judgment  day.  I  have  few  friends  just 
now,  and  once  I  am  dead  I  shall  have  none." 

"Ah,  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu!"  she  exclaimed,  "you  forget 
Blanche  de  Maletroit." 

"You  have  a  sweet  nature,  madam,  and  you  are  pleased  to 
estimate  a  little  service  far  beyond  its  worth." 

"It  is  not  that,"  she  answered.  "You  mistake  me  if  you 
think  I  am  easily  touched  by  my  own  concerns.  I  say  so,  be- 
cause you  are  the  noblest  man  I  have  ever  met ;  because  I 
recognize  in  you  a  spirit  that  would  have  made  even  a  common 
person  famous  in  the  land." 

"And  yet  here  I  die  in  a  mousetrap  —  with  no  more  noise 
about  it  than  my  own  squeaking,"  answered  he. 

A  look  of  pain  crossed  her  face,  and  she  was  silent  for  a  little 
while.  Then  a  light  came  into  her  eyes,  and  with  a  smile  she 
spoke  again. 

"I  cannot  have  my  champion  think  meanly  of  himself.  Any 
one  who  gives  his  life  for  another  will  be  met  in  Paradise  by  all 


THE  SIRE  DE  MALETROITS  DOOR  52 1 

the  heralds  and  angels  of  the  Lord  God.  And  you  have  no 
such  cause  to  hang  your  head.  For  .  .  .  Pray,  do  you  think 
me  beautiful?"  she  asked,  with  a  deep  flush. 

"Indeed,  madam,  I  do,"  he  said. 

"I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  answered  heartily.  "Do  you  think 
there  are  many  men  in  France  who  have  been  asked  in  marriage 
by  a  beautiful  maiden  —  with  her  own  lips  —  and  who  have 
refused  her  to  her  face?  I  know  you  men  would  half  despise 
such  a  triumph  ;  but  believe  me,  we  women  know  more  of  what 
is  precious  in  love.  There  is  nothing  that  should  set  a  person 
higher  in  his  own  esteem ;  and  we  women  would  prize  nothing 
more  dearly." 

"You  are  very  good,"  he  said;  "but  you  cannot  make  me 
forget  that  I  was  asked  in  pity  and  not  for  love." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  she  replied,  holding  down  her  head. 
"Hear  me  to  an  end,  Monsieur  de  Beaulieu.  I  know  how  you 
must  despise  me ;  I  feel  you  are  right  to  do  so ;  I  am  too  poor 
a  creature  to  occupy  one  thought  of  your  mind,  although,  alas  ! 
you  must  die  for  me  this  morning.  But  when  I  asked  you  to 
marry  me,  indeed,  and  indeed,  it  was  because  I  respected  and 
admired  you,  and  loved  you  with  my  whole  soul,  from  the  very 
moment  that  you  took  my  part  against  my  uncle.  If  you  had 
seen  yourself,  and  how  noble  you  looked,  you  would  pity  rather 
than  despise  me.  And  now,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly  checking 
him  with  her  hand,  "although  I  have  laid  aside  all  reserve  and 
told  you  so  much,  remember  that  I  know  your  sentiments 
towards  me  already.  I  would  not,  believe  me,  being  nobly 
born,  weary  you  with  importunities  into  consent.  I  too  have 
a  pride  of  my  own :  and  I  declare  before  the  holy  mother  of 
God,  if  you  should  now  go  back  from  your  word  already  given, 
I  would  no  more  marry  you  than  I  would  marry  my  uncle's 
groom." 

Denis  smiled  a  little  bitterly. 

"It  is  a  small  love,"  he  said,  "that  shies  at  a  little  pride." 

She  made  no  answer,  although  she  probably  had  her  own 
thoughts. 

"Come  hither  to  the  window,"  he  said  with  a  sigh.  "Here 
is  the  dawn." 


52 J  SHORT  STORIES 

And  indeed  the  flawn  was  already  beginning.  The  hollow 
of  the  sky  was  full  of  essential  daylight,  colorless  and  clean  ;  and 
the  valley  underneath  was  flooded  with  a  gray  reflection.  A 
few  thin  vapors  clung  in  the  coves  of  the  forest  or  lay  alortg  the 
wnnding  course  of  the  river.  The  scene  disengaged  a  surprising 
effect  of  stillness,  which  was  hardly  interrupted  when  the  cocks 
began  once  more  to  crow  among  the  steadings.  Perhaps  the 
same  fellow  who  had  made  so  horrid  a  clangor  in  the  darkness 
not  half  an  hour  before,  now  sent  up  the  merriest  cheer  to  greet 
the  coming  day.  A  httle  wind  went  bustling  and  edd>ing  among 
the  tree-tops  underneath  the  windows.  And  still  the  daylight 
kept  llooding  insensibly  out  of  the  east,  which  was  soon  to  grow 
sncandescent  and  cast  up  that  red-hot  caimon-ball,  the  rising 
sun. 

Denis  looked  out  over  all  this  with  a  bit  of  a  shiver.  He  had 
taken  her  hand,  and  retained  it  in  his  almost  unconsciously. 

"Has  the  day  begun  already?"  she  said;  and  then,  illogi- 
cally  enough:  "the  night  has  been  so  long !  Alas  !  what  shall 
we  say  to  my  uncle  when  he  returns  ?  " 

"What  you  -udll,"  said  Denis,  and  he  pressed  her  fingers  in 
his. 

She  was  silent. 

"Blanche,"  he  said,  with  a  swift,  uncertain,  passionate  utter- 
ance, "you  have  seen  whether  I  fear  death.  You  must  know 
well  enough  that  I  would  as  gladly  leap  out  of  that  window  into 
the  empty  air  as  to  lay  a  finger  on  you  without  your  free  and 
full  consent.  But  if  you  care  for  me  at  all  do  not  let  me  lose 
my  life  in  a  misapprehension ;  for  I  love  you  better  than  the  whole 
world ;  and  though  I  wall  die  for  you  blithely,  it  would  be  like  all 
the  joys  of  Paradise  to  live  on  and  spend  my  life  in  your  service." 

As  he  stopped  speaking,  a  bell  began  to  ring  loudly  in  the 
interior  of  the  house ;  and  a  clatter  of  armor  in  the  corridor 
showed  that  the  retainers  were  returning  to  their  post,  and  the 
two  hours  were  at  an  end. 

"After  all  that  you  have  heard?"  she  whispered,  leaning 
towards  him  with  her  lips  and  eyes. 

"I  have  heard  nothing,"  he  replied. 


A   GALA   DRESS  523 

"The  captain's  name  was  Florimond  de  Champdivers,"  she 
said  in  his  ear. 

'*I  did  not  hear  it,"  he  answered,  taking  her  supple  body  in 
his  arms,  and  covered  her  wet  face  with  kisses. 

A  melodious  chirping  was  audible  behind,  followed  by  a 
beautiful  chuckle,  and  the  voice  of  Messire  de  Maletroit  wished 
his  new  nephew  a  good-morning. 


A  GALA    DRESS  1 

Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman 

"I  don't  care  anything  about  goin'  to  that  Fourth  of  July 
picnic,  'Liz'beth." 

"I  wouldn't  say  anything  more  about  it,  if  I  was  you,  Em'ly. 
I'd  get  ready  an'  go." 

"I  don't  really  feel  able  to  go,  'Liz'beth." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  you  ain't  able." 

"It  seems  to  me  as  if  the  fire-crackers  an'  the  tootin'  on  those 
horns  would  drive  me  crazy ;  an'  Matilda  Jennings  says  they're 
goin'  to  have  a  cannon  down  there,  an'  fire  it  off  every  half- 
hour.  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  stan'  it.  You  know  my  nerves 
ain't  very  strong,  'Liz'beth." 

Elizabeth  Babcock  uplifted  her  long,  delicate  nose  with  its 
transparent  nostrils  and  sniffed.  Apparently  her  sister's  per- 
verseness  had  an  unacceptable  odor  to  her.  "I  wouldn't  talk 
so  if  I  was  you,  Em'ly.  Of  course  you're  goin'.  It's  your 
turn  to,  an'  you  know  it.  I  went  to  meetin'  last  Sabbath.  You 
just  put  on  that  dress  an'  go." 

Emily  eyed  her  sister.  She  tried  not  to  look  pleased.  "I 
know  you  went  to  meetin'  last,"  said  she,  hesitatingly  ;  "  but  — 
a  Fourth  of  July  picnic  is  —  a  little  more  of  —  a  rarity."  She 
fairly  jumped,  her  sister  confronted  her  with  such  sudden  vigor. 

"Rarity!     Well,  I  hope  a  Fourth  of  July  picnic  ain't  quite 

*  From  A  New  England  Nun  and  Other  Stories.  Copyright  by  Harper  and 
Brothers,    1890.     Reprinted  by  permission. 


524 


SHORT  STORIES 


such  a  treat  U)  me  that  I'd  ruthcr  go  to  it  than  meetin'  !  I 
r^hould  think  you'd  be  ashamed  of  yourself  speakin'  so,  Eni'ly 
Habcock." 

Emily,  a  moment  before  delicately  alert  and  nervous  like 
her  sister,  shrank  limply  in  her  limp  black  muslin.  "I  —  didn't 
think  how  it  sounded,  'Liz'beth." 

"Well,  I  should  say  you'd  better  think.  It  don't  sound  very 
becomin'  for  a  woman  of  your  age,  an'  professin'  what  you  do. 
Now  you'd  better  go  an'  get  out  that  dress,  and  rip  the  velvet 
ofT,  an'  sew  the  lace  on.  There  won't  be  any  too  much  time. 
They'll  start  early  in  the  mornin'.  I'll  stir  up  a  cake  for  you 
to  carry,  when  I  get  tea." 

"Don't  you  s'pose  I  could  get  along  without  a  cake  ?"  Emily 
ventured  tremulously. 

"Well,  I  shouldn't  think  you'd  want  to  go,  an'  be  beholden 
to  other  folks  for  your  eatin' ;   I  shouldn't." 

"I  shouldn't  want  anything  to  eat." 

"I  guess  if  you  go,  you're  goin'  like  other  folks.  I  ain't 
goin'  to  have  Matilda  Jennings  peekin'  an'  pr}dn'  an'  tellin' 
things,  if  I  know  it.     You'd  better  get  out  that  dress." 

"Well,"  said  Emily,  ^\'ith  a  long  sigh  of  remorseful  satisfac- 
tion. She  arose,  showing  a  height  that  would  have  approached 
the  majestic  had  it  not  been  so  wavering.  The  sisters  were 
about  the  same  height,  but  Elizabeth  usually  impressed  people 
as  being  the  taller.  She  carried  herself  ^\^th  so  much  decision 
that  she  seemed  to  keep  every  inch  of  her  stature  firm  and  taut, 
old  woman  although  she  was. 

"Let's  see  that  dress  a  minute,"  she  said,  when  Emily  returned. 
She  wiped  her  spectacles,  set  them  firmly,  and  began  examining 
the  hem  of  the  dress,  holding  it  close  to  her  eyes.  "You're 
gettin'  of  it  all  tagged  out,"  she  declared,  presently.  "  I  thought 
you  was.  I  thought  I  see  some  ravellin's  hangin'  the  other  day 
when  I  had  it  on.  It's  jest  because  you  don't  stand  up  straight. 
It  ain't  any  longer  for  you  than  it  is  for  me,  if  you  didn't  go  all 
bent  over  so.     There  ain't  any  need  of  it." 

Emily  oscillated  wearily  over  her  sister  and  the  dress.  "I 
ain't  very  strong  in  my  back,  an'  you  know  I've  got  a  weakness 


A   GALA   DRESS 


525 


in  my  stomach  that  henders  me  from  standin'  up  as  straight 
as  you  do,"  she  rejoined,  rallying  herself  for  a  feeble  defence. 

"You  can  stan'  up  jest  as  well  as  I  can,  if  you're  a  mind  to." 

"I'll  rip  that  velvet  off  now,  if  you'll  let  me  have  the  dress, 
'Liz'beth." 

Elizabeth  passed  over  the  dress,  handling  it  gingerly.  "  Mind 
you  don't  cut  it  rippin'  of  it  off,"  said  she. 

Emily  sat  down,  and  the  dress  lay  in  shiny  black  billows  over 
her  lap.  The  dress  was  black  silk,  and  had  been  in  its  day  very 
soft  and  heavy;  even  now  there  was  considerable  wear  left  in 
it.  The  waist  and  over-skirt  were  trimmed  with  black  velvet 
ribbon.  Emily  ripped  off  the  velvet ;  then  she  sewed  on  some 
old-fashioned,  straight-edged  black  lace  full  of  little  embroidered 
sprigs.  The  sisters  sat  in  their  parlor  at  the  right  of  the  front 
door.  The  room  was  very  warm,  for  there  were  two  west  win- 
dows, and  a  hot  afternoon  sun  was  beating  upon  them.  Out 
in  front  of  the  house  was  a  piazza,  with  a  cool  uneven  brick 
floor,  and  a  thick  lilac  growth  across  the  western  end.  The 
sisters  might  have  sat  there  and  been  comfortable,  but  they 
would  not. 

"Set  right  out  in  the  face  an'  eyes  of  all  the  neighbors!" 
they  would  have  exclaimed  with  dismay  had  the  idea  been  sug- 
gested. There  was  about  these  old  women  and  all  their  belong- 
ings a  certain  gentle  and  deprecatory  reticence.  One  felt  it 
immediately  upon  entering  their  house,  or  indeed  upon  coming 
in  sight  of  it.  There  were  never  any  heads  at  the  windows ; 
the  blinds  were  usually  closed.  Once  in  a  while  a  passer-by 
might  see  an  old  woman,  well  shielded  by  shawl  and  scooping 
sun-bonnet,  start  up  like  a  timid  spirit  in  the  yard,  and  softly 
disappear  through  a  crack  in  the  front  door.  Out  in  the  front 
yard  Emily  had  a  little  bed  of  flowers  —  of  balsams  and  nas- 
turtiums and  portulacas ;  she  tended  them  with  furtive  glances 
toward  the  road.  Elizabeth  came  out  in  the  early  morning 
to  sweep  the  brick  floor  of  the  piazza,  and  the  front  door  was 
left  ajar  for  a  hurried  flitting  should  any  one  appear. 

This  excessive  shyness  and  secrecy  had  almost  the  aspect 
of  guilt,  but  no  more  guileless  and  upright  persons  could  have 


5^6  SHORT  STORIES 

been  imaj!;ined  than  these  two  old  women.  They  had  over 
their  pador  windows  full,  softly  falling  old  muslin  curtains, 
and  they  looped  them  back  to  leave  bare  the  smallest  possible 
space  of  glass.  The  parlor  chairs  retreated  close  to  the  walls, 
the  polish  of  the  j)arlor  table  lit  up  a  dim  corner.  There  were 
very  few  ornaments  in  sight ;  the  walls  were  full  of  closets  and 
little  cupboards,  and  in  them  all  superfluities  were  tucked  away 
to  protect  them  from  dust  and  prying  eyes.  Ne\er  a  door  in 
the  house  stood  open,  e\'ery  bureau  drawer  was  squarely  shut. 
A  whole  family  of  skeletons  might  ha\'e  been  v.ell  hidden  in 
these  guarded  recesses ;  but  skeletons  there  were  none,  except, 
perhaps,  a  little  innocent  bone  or  two  of  old-womanly  pride  and 
sensitiveness. 

The  Babcock  sisters  guarded  nothing  more  jealously  than  the 
privacy  of  their  meals.  The  neighbors  considered  that  there 
was  a  decided  reason  for  this.  "The  Babcock  girls  have  so 
little  to  eat  that  they're  ashamed  to  let  folks  see  it,"  people 
said.  It  was  certain  that  the  old  women  regarded  intrusion  at 
their  meals  as  an  insidt,  but  it  was  doubtful  if  they  would  not 
have  done  so  had  their  table  been  set  out  with  all  the  luxuries 
of  the  season  instead  of  scanty  bread  and  butter  and  no  sauce. 
No  sauce  for  tea  was  regarded  as  very  poor  living  by  the  village 
women. 

To-night  the  Babcocks  had  tea  very  soon  after  the  lace  was 
sewed  on  the  dress.  They  always  had  tea  early.  They  were  in 
the  midst  of  it  when  the  front-door  opened,  and  a  voice  was 
heard  calling  out  in  the  hall. 

The  sisters  cast  a  dismayed  and  indignant  look  at  each  other ; 
they  both  arose ;  but  the  door  flew  open,  and  their  little  square 
tea-table,  with  its  green-and-white  china  pot  of  weak  tea,  its 
plate  of  bread  and  little  glass  dish  of  butter,  its  two  china  cups, 
and  thin  silver  teaspoons,  was  displayed  to  \-iew. 

"My  !"  cried  the  visitor,  with  a  Httle  backward  shuffle.  "I 
do  hope  you'll  'scuse  me  !  I  didn't  know  you  was  eatin'  supper. 
I  wouldn't  ha'  come  in  for  the  world  if  I'd  known.  I'll  go  right 
out;  it  wa'n't  anything  pertickler,  anyhow."  All  the  time  her 
sharp   and   comprehensive  gaze   was   on   the   tea-table.     She 


A   GALA   DRESS  527 

counted  the  slices  of  bread,  she  measured  the  butter,  as  she 
talked.     The  sisters  stepped  forward  with  dignity. 

"  Come  into  the  other  room,"  said  Elizabeth ;  and  the  visitor, 
still  protesting,  with  her  backward  eyes  upon  the  tea-table, 
gave  way  before  her. 

But  her  eyes  lighted  at  seeing  something  in  the  parlor  more 
eagerly  than  they  had  upon  that  frugal  and  exclusive  table. 
The  sisters  glanced  at  each  other  in  dismay.  The  black  silk 
dress  lay  over  a  chair.  The  caller,  who  was  their  neighbor 
Matilda  Jennings,  edged  toward  it  as  she  talked.  ''I  thought 
I'd  jest  run  over  an'  see  if  you  wan't  goin'  to  the  picnic  to-mor- 
row," she  was  saying.  Then  she  clutched  the  dress  and  diverged. 
"Oh,  you've  been  fixin'  your  dress  I"  she  said  to  Emily,  with 
innocent  insinuation.  Insinuation  did  not  sit  well  upon  Ma- 
tilda Jennings ;  none  of  her  body  lines  were  adapted  to  it,  and 
the  pretence  was  quite  evident.  She  was  short  and  stout, 
with  a  hard,  sallow  rotundity  of  cheek ;  her  small  black  eyes  were 
bright-pointed  under  fleshy  brows. 

"Yes,  I  have,"  replied  Emily,  with  a  scared  glance  at  Eliza- 
beth. 

"Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  stepping  firmly  into  the  subject,  and 
confronting  Matilda  with  prim  and  resolute  blue  eyes.  "She 
has  been  fixin'  of  it.  The  lace  was  ripped  off,  an'  she  had  to 
mend  it." 

"It's  pretty  lace,  ain't  it?  I  had  some  of  the  same  kind  on 
a  mantilla  once  when  I  was  a  girl.  This  makes  me  think  of  it. 
The  sprigs  in  mine  was  set  a  little  closer.  Let  me  see,  'Liz'- 
beth,  your  black  silk  dress  is  trimmed  with  velvet,  ain't  it?" 

Elizabeth  surveyed  her  calmly.  "Yes,  I've  always  worn 
black  velvet  on  it,"  said  she. 

Emily  sighed  faintly.  She  had  feared  that  Elizabeth  could 
not  answer  desirably  and  be  truthful. 

"Let  me  see,"  continued  Matilda,  "how  was  that  velvet 
put  on  your  waist  ?  " 

"  It  was  put  on  peaked." 

"  In  one  peak  or  two  ?  " 

"One." 


:;28  SHORT  sroRiKS 

"Now  I  wonder  if  it  would  he  too  much  troul)le  for  you  jebst 
to  let  nic  see  it  a  luiiiule.  I've  been  thinkin'  of  fixin'  over  my 
old  alpaca  a  little,  and  I've  got  a  piece  of  black  velvet  ribbon 
I've  steamed  over,  an'  it  looks  pretty  good.  I  thought  mebbe 
I  could  put  it  on  like  yours." 

Matilda  Jennings,  in  her  chocolate  calico,  stood  as  relentlessly 
as  any  executioner  before  the  Babcock  sisters.  They,  slim  and 
delicate  and  pale  in  their  flabby  black  muslins,  leaned  toward 
each  other,  then  Elizabeth  straightened  herself.  "Some  time 
when  it's  convenient  I'd  jest  as  soon  show  it  as  not/'  said  she. 

"Well,  I'd  be  much  obleeged  to  you  if  you  would,"  returned 
Matilda.  Her  manner  was  a  trifle  overawed,  but  there  was 
a  sharper  gleam  in  her  eyes.  Pretty  soon  she  went  home,  and 
ate  her  solitary  and  substantial  supper  of  bread  and  butter, 
cold  potatoes,  and  pork  and  beans.  Matilda  Jennings  was  as 
poor  as  the  Babcocks.  She  had  never,  like  them,  known  better 
days.  She  had  never  possessed  any  fine  old  muslins  nor  black 
silks  in  her  life,  but  she  had  always  eaten  more. 

The  Babcocks  had  always  delicately  and  unobtrusively  felt 
themselves  above  her.  There  had  been  in  their  lives  a  faint 
savor  of  gentility  and  aristocracy.  Their  father  had  been  col- 
lege-educated and  a  doctor.  Matilda's  antecedents  had  been 
humble,  even  in  this  humble  community.  She  had  come  of 
wood-sawyers  and  garden-laborers.  In  their  youth,  when 
they  had  gone  to  school  and  played  together,  they  had  always 
realized  their  height  above  Matilda,  and  even  old  age  and  pov- 
erty and  a  certain  friendliness  could  not  do  away  with  it. 

The  Babcocks  owned  their  house  and  a  tiny  sum  in  the  bank, 
upon  the  interest  of  which  they  lived.  Nobody  knew  how  much 
it  was,  nobody  would  ever  know  while  they  lived.  They  might 
have  had  more  if  they  would  have  sold  or  mortgaged  their 
house,  but  they  would  have  died  first.  They  starved  daintily 
and  patiently  on  their  little  income.  They  mended  their  old 
muslins  and  Thibets,  and  wore  one  dress  between  them  for 
best,  taking  turns  in  going  out. 

It  seemed  inconsistent,  but  the  sisters  were  very  fond  of 
society,  and  their  rescr\e  did  not  interfere  with  their  pleasure 


A   GALA   DRESS 


529 


in  the  simple  village  outings.  They  were  more  at  ease  abroad 
than  at  home,  perhaps  because  there  were  not  present  so  many 
doors  which  could  be  opened  into  their  secrecy.  But  they  had 
an  arbitrary  conviction  that  their  claims  to  respect  and  consider- 
ation would  be  forever  forfeited  should  they  appear  on  state 
occasions  in  anything  but  black  silk.  To  their  notions  of  eti- 
quette, black  silk  was  as  sacred  a  necessity  as  feathers  at  the 
English  court.  They  could  not  go  abroad  and  feel  any  self- 
respect  in  those  flimsy  muslins  and  rusty  woollens,  which  were 
very  flimsy  and  rusty.  The  old  persons  in  the  village  could 
hardly  remember  when  the  Babcocks  had  a.  new  dress.  The 
dainty  care  with  which  they  had  made  those  tender  old  fabrics 
endure  so  long  was  wonderful.  They  held  up  their  skirts  primly 
when  they  walked;  they  kept  their  pointed  elbows  clear  of 
chairs  and  tables.  The  black  silk  in  particular  was  taken  off 
the  minute  the  wearer  entered  her  own  house.  It  was  shaken 
softly,  folded,  and  laid  away  in  a  linen  sheet. 

Emily  was  dressed  in  it  on  the  Fourth  of  July  morning  when 
Matilda  Jennings  called  for  her.  Matilda  came  in  her  volumi- 
nous old  alpaca,  with  her  tin  lunch-pail  on  her  arm.  She  looked 
at  Emily  in  the  black  silk,  and  her  countenance  changed.  "  My  ! 
you  ain't  goin'  to  wear  that  black  silk  traiiin'  round  in  the  woods, 
are  you?"  said  she. 

"I  guess  she  won't  trail  around  much,"  spoke  up  Elizabeth. 
"She's  got  to  go  lookin'  decent." 

Matilda's  poor  old  alpaca  had  many  a  threadbare  streak 
and  mended  slit  in  its  rusty  folds,  the  elbows  were  patched,  it 
was  hardly  respectable.  But  she  gave  the  skirt  a  defiant 
switch,  and  jerked  the  patched  elbows.  "Well,  I  allers  believed 
in  goin'  dressed  suitable  for  the  occasion,"  said  she,  sturdily,  as 
if  that  was  her  special  picnic  costume  out  of  a  large  wardrobe. 
However,  her  bravado  was  not  deeply  seated ;  all  day  long  she 
manoeuvred  to  keep  her  patches  and  darns  out  of  sight,  she 
arranged  the  skirt  nervously  every  time  she  changed  her  posi- 
tion, she  held  her  elbows  close  to  her  sides,  and  she  made  many 
little  flings  at  Emily's  black  silk. 

The  festivities  were  nearly  over,  the  dinner  had  been  eaten, 

2M 


530  SHORT  STORIES 

Matilda  had  devoured  with  relish  her  brown-bread  and  cheese 
and  cold  pork,  and  Emily  had  nibbled  daintily  at  her  sweet  cake, 
and  glanced  with  inward  loathing  at  her  neighbor's  grosser  fare. 
The  speeches  by  the  local  celebrities  were  deli\'ercd,  the  cannon 
had  been  lired  every  half-hour,  the  sun  was  getting  low  in  the 
west,  and  a  golden  mist  was  rising  among  the  ferny  undergrowth 
in  the  grove.  "It's  gettin'  damp;  I  can  see  it  risin',"  said 
Emily,  who  was  rheumatic ;  "I  guess  we'd  better  walk  'round  a 
little,  an'  then  go  home." 

"Well,"  replied  Matilda,  "I'd  jest  as  soon.  You'd  better 
hold  up  your  dress." 

The  two  old  women  adjusted  themselves  stiffly  upon  their 
feet,  and  began  ranging  the  grove,  stepping  warily  over  the 
slippery  pine-needles.  The  woods  were  full  of  merry  calls ;  the 
green  distances  fluttered  with  light  draperies.  Every  little 
while  came  the  sharp  bang  of  a  fire-cracker,  the  crash  of  cannon, 
or  the  melancholy  hoot  of  a  fish  horn.  Now  and  then  blue  gun- 
powder smoke  curled  up  with  the  golden  steam  from  the  dewy 
ground.  Emily  was  near-sighted;  she  moved  on  with  inno- 
cently peering  eyes,  her  long  neck  craned  forward.  Matilda 
had  been  taking  the  lead,  but  she  suddenly  stepped  aside. 
Emily  walked  on  unsuspectingly,  holding  up  her  precious  black 
silk.  There  was  a  quick  puff  of  smoke,  a  leap  of  flame,  a  volley 
of  vicious  little  reports,  and  poor  Emily  Babcock  danced  as  a 
martyr  at  her  fiery  trial  might  have  done;  her  gentle  dignity 
completely  deserted  her.     "Oh,,  oh,  oh!"  she  shrieked. 

Matilda  Jennings  pushed  forward ;  by  that  time  Emily  was 
standing,  pale  and  quivering,  on  a  little  heap  of  ashes.  "You 
stepped  into  a  nest  of  fire-crackers,"  said  Matilda ;  "a  boy  jest 
i"un ;  I  saw  him.  What  made  you  stan'  there  in  'em  ?  Why 
didn't  you  get  out  ?  " 

"I  —  couldn't,"  gasped  Emily ;   she  could  hardly  speak. 

"Well,  I  guess  it  ain't  done  much  harm ;  them  boys  ought  to 
be  prosecuted.  You  don't  feel  as  if  you  was  burned  anywhere, 
do  you,  Em'ly  ?" 

"No  —  I  guess  not." 

"Seems  to  me  your  dress  —    Jest  let  me  look  at  your  dress, 


A   GALA   DRESS  53 1 

Em'ly.  My !  ain't  that  a  wicked  shame !  Jest  look  at  all 
them  holes,  right  in  the  flouncin',  where  it'll  show  !" 

It  was  too  true.  The  flounce  that  garnished  the  bottom  of  the 
black  skirt  was  scorched  in  a  number  of  places.  Emily  looked  at 
it  and  felt  faint.  "I  must  go  right  home,"  she  moaned.  "Oh, 
dear!" 

"Mebbe  you  can  darn  it,  if  you're  real  pertickler  about  it," 
said  Matilda,  with  an  uneasy  air. 

Emily  said  nothing ;  she  went  home.  Her  dress  switched 
the  dust  off  the  wayside  weeds,  but  she  paid  no  attention  to  it ; 
she  walked  so  fast  that  Matilda  could  hardly  keep  up  with  her. 
When  she  reached  her  own  gate,  she  swung  it  swiftly  to  before 
Matilda's  face,  then  she  fled  into  the  house. 

Ehzabeth  came  to  the  parlor  door  with  a  letter  in  her  hand. 
She  cried  out,  when  she  saw  her  sister's  face,  "What  is  the  mat- 
ter, Em'ly,  for  pity  sakes?" 

"You  can't  never  go  out  again,  'Liz'beth;  you  can't!  you 
can't!" 

"Why  can't  I  go  out,  I'd  like  to  know ?  What  do  you  mean, 
Em'ly  Babcock  ?  " 

"You  can't,  you  never  can  again.  I  stepped  into  some  fire- 
crackers, and  I've  burned  some  great  holes  right  in  the  flouncin'. 
You  can't  never  wear  it  without  folks  knowin'.  Matilda  Jen- 
nings will  tell.     Oh,  'Liz'beth,  what  will  you  do?" 

"Do ? "  said  Elizabeth.  "  Well,  I  hope  I  ain't  so  set  on  goin' 
out  at  my  time  of  life  as  all  that  comes  to.  Let's  see  it.  H'm, 
I  can  mend  that." 

"No,  you  can't.  Matilda  would  see  it  if  you  did.  Oh,  dear  f 
oh,  dear  ! "  Emily  dropped  into  a  corner  and  put  her  slim  hands 
over  her  face. 

"Do  stop  actin'  so,"  said  her  sister.  "I've  jest  had  a  letter, 
an'  Aunt  'Liz'beth  is  dead." 

After  a  little  Emily  looked  up.  "When  did  she  die?"  she 
asked,  in  a  despairing  voice. 

"Last  week." 

"Did  they  ask  us  to  the  funeral  ?" 

"Of  course  they  did ;  it  was  last  Friday,  at  two  o'clock  in  the 


532  SnORT  STORIES 

afternoon.  They  knew  the  letter  couldn't  get  to  us  till  after 
the  funeral ;  but  of  course  they'd  ask  us." 

"What  did  they  say  the  matter  was?" 

''Old  a,2;e,  I  guess,  as  much  as  anything.  Aunt  'Liz'beth  was 
a  good  deal  over  eighty." 

Emily  sat  reflectively;  she  seemed  to  be  listening  while  her 
sister  related  more  at  length  the  contents  of  the  letter.  Sud- 
denlv  she  interrupted.     '"Liz'beth." 

"Well?" 

"I  was  thinkin',  'Liz'beth  —  you  know  those  crape  veils  we 
wore  when  mother  died  ! " 

''Well,  what  of 'em?" 

"I  —  don't  see  why  —  you  couldn't  —  make  a  flounce  of 
those  veils,  an'  put  on  this  dress  when  you  wore  it;  then  she 
wouldn't  know." 

"I'd  like  to  know  what  I'd  wear  a  crape  flounce  for?" 

"Why,  mournin'  for  Aunt  'Liz'beth." 

"Em'ly  Babcock,  what  sense  would  there  be  in  my  wearin' 
mournin'  when  you  didn't?" 

"You  was  named  for  her,  and  that's  a  very  diff'rent  thing. 
You  can  jest  tell  folks  that  you  was  named  for  your  aunt  that 
jest  died,  an'  you  felt  as  if  you  ought  to  wear  a  little  crape  on 
your  best  dress." 

"  It'll  be  an  awful  job  to  put  on  a  different  flounce  every  time 
we  wear  it." 

"I'll  do  it;  I'm  perfectly  willin'  to  do  it.  Oh,  'Liz'beth,  I 
shall  die  if  you  ever  go  out  again  an'  wear  that  dress." 

"  For  pity  sakes,  don't,  Em'ly  !  I'll  get  out  those  veils  after 
supper  an'  look  at  'em." 

The  next  Sunday  Elizabeth  wore  the  black  silk  garnished  with 
a  crape  flounce  to  church.  Matilda  Jennings  walked  home  with 
her,  and  eyed  the  new  trimming  sharply.  "  Got  a  new  flounce, 
ain't  you?"  said  she,  finally. 

"I  had  word  last  week  that  my  aunt  'Liz'beth  Taylor  was 
dead,  an'  I  thought  it  wa'n't  anything  more'n  fittin'  that  I 
should  put  on  a  little  crape,"  replied  Elizabeth,  with  dignity. 

"Has  Em'ly  put  on  mournin'  too?" 


A   GALA   DRESS  533 

"Em'ly  ain't  any  call  to.  She  wa'n't  named  after  her,  as  I 
was,  an'  she  never  saw  her  but  once,  when  she  was  a  little  girl. 
It  ain't  more'n  ten  year  since  I  saw  her.  She  lived  out  West. 
I  didn't  feel  as  if  Em'ly  had  any  call  to  wear  crape." 

MatUda  said  no  more,  but  there  was  an  unquelled  suspicion 
in  her  eye  as  they  parted  at  the  Babcock  gate. 

The  next  week  a  trunk  full  of  Aunt  Ehzabeth  Taylor's  clothes 
arrived  from  the  West.  Her  daughter  had  sent  them.  There 
was  in  the  trunk  a  goodly  store  of  old  woman's  finery,  two  black 
silks  among  the  other  gowns.  Aunt  Elizabeth  had  been  a  dressy 
old  lady,  although  she  died  in  her  eighties.  It  was  a  great  sur- 
prise to  the  sisters.  They  had  never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing. 
They  palpitated  with  awe  and  delight  as  they  took  out  the 
treasures.  Emily  clutched  Elizabeth,  the  thin  hand  closing 
around  the  thin  arm. 

'"Liz'beth!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"We  —  won't  say  —  anything  about  this  to  anybody.  We'll 
jest  go  together  to  meetin'  next  Sabbath,  an'  wear  these  black 
silks,  an'  let  Matilda  Jennings  see." 

Ehzabeth  looked  at  Emily.  A  gleam  came  into  her  dim  blue 
eyes;    she  tightened  her  thin  lips.     "Well,  we  will,"  said  she. 

The  following  Sunday  the  sisters  wore  the  black  silks  to 
church.  During  the  week  they  appeared  together  at  a  sewing 
meeting,  then  at  church  again.  The  wonder  and  curiosity  were 
certainly  not  confined  to  Matilda  Jennings.  The  eccentricity 
which  the  Babcock  sisters  displayed  in  not  going  into  society 
together  had  long  been  a  favorite  topic  in  the  town.  There  had 
been  a  great  deal  of  speculation  over  it.  Now  that  they  had 
appeared  together  three  consecutive  times,  there  was  much  talk. 

On  the  Monday  following  the  second  Sunday  Matilda  Jen- 
nings went  down  to  the  Babcock  house.  Her  cape-bonnet  was 
on  one-sided,  but  it  was  firmly  tied.  She  opened  the  door  softly, 
when  her  old  muscles  were  straining  to  jerk  the  latch.  She  sat 
down  gently  in  the  proffered  chair,  and  displayed  quite  openly 
a  worn  place  over  the  knees  in  her  calico  gown. 

"We  had  a  pleasant  Sabbath  yesterday,  didn't  we  ?"  said  she. 


534  SHORT  STORIES 

"Real  pleasant,"  assented  the  sisters. 

"  I  thought  we  had  a  gDod  discourse." 

Tlic  Bahcocks  assented  again. 

"  I  hecrd  a  good  many  say  they  thought  it  was  a  good  dis- 
course," repeated  Matilda,  Uke  an  emphatic  chorus.  Then  she 
suddenly  leaned  forward,  and  her  face,  in  the  depths  of  her 
awr>'  bonnet,  twisted  into  a  benevolent  smile.  "I  was  real  glad 
to  see  you  out  together,"  she  whispered,  with  meaning  emphasis. 

The  sisters  smiled  stiffly. 

Matilda  paused  for  a  moment ;  she  drew  herself  back,  as  if 
to  gather  strength  for  a  thrust;  she  stopped  smiling.  "I  was 
glad  to  see  you  out  together,  for  I  thought  it  was  too  bad  the 
way  folks  was  talkin',"  she  said. 

Elizabeth  looked  at  her.     "How  were  they  talkin'?" 

''Well,  I  don't  know  as  there's  any  harm  in  my  teUin'  you. 
I've  been  thinkin'  mebbe  I  ought  to  for  some  time.  It's  been 
round  considerable  lately  that  you  and  Em'ly  didn't  get  along 
well,  an'  that  was  the  reason  you  didn't  go  out  more  together. 
I  told  'em  I  hadn't  no  idea  'twas  so,  though,  of  course,  I  couldn't 
really  tell.  I  was  real  glad  to  see  you  out  together,  'cause  there's 
never  knowin'  how  folks  do  get  along,  an'  I  was  real  glad  to  see 
you'd  settled  it  if  there  had  been  any  trouble." 

"There  ain't  been  any  trouble." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  if  there  ain't  been  any,  an'  if  there  has,  I'm 
glad  to  see  it  settled,  an'  I  know  other  folks  \xi\\  be  too." 

Elizabeth  stood  up.  "If  you  want  to  know  the  reason  why 
we  haven't  been  out  together,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  she.  "You've 
been  tr^dn'  to  find  out  things  every  way  you  could,  an'  now  I'll 
tell  you.  You've  drove  me  to  it.  We  had  just  one  decent  dress 
between  us,  and  Em'ly  an'  me  took  turns  wearin'  it,  and  Em'ly 
used  to  wear  lace  on  it,  an'  I  used  to  rip  off  the  lace  and  sew  on 
black  velvet  when  I  wore  it,  so  folks  shouldn't  know  it  was  the 
same  dress.  Em'ly  an'  me  never  had  a  word  in  our  lives,  an'  it's 
a  wicked  lie  for  folks  to  say  we  have." 

Emily  was  softly  weeping  in  her  handkerchief,  there  was  not 
a  tear  in  Elizabeth's  eyes ;  there  were  bright  sy^ots  on  her  cheeks 
and  her  slim  height  overhung  Matilda  Jennings  imposingly. 


A   GALA   DRESS  535 

"My  aunt  'Liz'beth,  that  I  was  named  for,  died  two  or  three 
weeks  ago,"  she  continued,  "an'  they  sent  us  a  trunk  full  of  her 
clothes,  an'  there  was  two  decent  dresses  among  'em,  an'  that's 
the  reason  why  Em'ly  an'  me  have  been  found  out  together 
sence.  Now,  Matilda  Jennings,  you  have  found  out  the  whole 
story,  an'  I  hope  you're  satisfied." 

Now  that  the  detective  instinct  and  the  craving  inquisitive- 
ness  which  were  so  strong  in  this  old  woman  were  satisfied,  she 
should  have  been  more  jubilant  than  she  was.  She  had  sus- 
pected what  nobody  else  in  town  had  suspected ;  she  had  veri- 
fied her  suspicion,  and  discovered  what  the  secrecy  and  pride  of 
the  sisters  had  concealed  from  the  whole  village ;  still  she  looked 
uneasy  and  subdued.     "I  sha'n't  tell  anybody,"  said  she. 

"You  can  tell  nobody  you're  a  mind  to." 

"I  sha'n't  tell  nobody."  Matilda  Jennings  arose;  she  had 
passed  the  parlor  door  when  she  faced  about.  "I  s'pose  I 
kinder  begretched  you  that  black  silk,"  said  she,  "or  I  shouldn't 
have  cared  so  much  about  findin'  out.  I  never  had  a  black 
silk  myself,  nor  any  of  my  folks  that  I  ever  heard  of.  I  ain't  got 
nothin'  decent  to  wear  anyway." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  "We  sha'n't  lay  up  anything," 
said  Elizabeth  then,  and  Emily  sobbed  responsively.  Matilda 
passed  on,  and  opened  the  outer  door.  Elizabeth  whispered  to 
her  sister,  and  Emily  nodded,  eagerly.     "You  tell  her,"  said  she. 

"Matilda,"  called  Elizabeth.  Matilda  looked  back.  "I  was 
jest  goin'  to  say  that,  if  you  wouldn't  resent  it,  it  got  burned 
some,  but  we  mended  it  nice,  that  you  was  perfectly  welcome  to 
that  —  black  silk.  Em'ly  an'  me  don't  really  need  it,  and  we'd 
be  glad  to  have  you  have  it." 

There  were  tears  in  Matilda  Jennings's  black  eyes,  but  she 
held  them  unwinkingly.  "Thank  ye,"  she  said,  in  a  gruff 
voice,  and  stepped  along  over  the  piazza,  down  the  steps.  She 
reached  Emily's  flower  garden.  The  peppery  sweetness  of  the 
nasturtiums  came  up  in  her  face ;  it  was  quite  early  in  the  day, 
and  the  portulacas  were  still  out  in  a  splendid  field  of  crimson 
and  yellow.  Matilda  turned  about,  her  broad  feet  just  cleared 
9,  yellow  portulaca  which  had  straggled  into  the  path,  but  she 


5-6  SHORT  STORIES 

did  not  notice  it.  The  homely  old  figure  pushed  past  the 
tlowers  and  into  the  house  again.  She  stood  before  Elizabeth 
and  Emily.  ''Look  here,"  said  she,  with  a  fine  light  struggling 
out  of  her  coarse  old  face,  "I  want  to  tell  you  —  /  see  them  fire- 
crackers a-sizzlin  before  Ent'ly  stepped  in  'ew." 

MAMMON   AND    THE   ARCHER' 
O.   Henry 

Old  Anthony  Rockwall,  retired  manufacturer  and  proprietor 
of  Rockwall's  Eureka  Soap,  looked  out  of  the  library  window  of 
his  Fifth  Avenue  mansion  and  grinned.  His  neighbour  to  the 
right  —  the  aristocratic  clubman,  G.  Van  Schuylight  Suffolk- 
Jones  —  came  out  to  his  waiting  motor-car,  wrinkling  a  con- 
tumelious nostril,  as  usual,  at  the  Italian  renaissance  sculpture 
of  the  soap  palace's  front  elevation. 

"Stuck-up  old  statuette  of  nothing  doing!"  commented  the 
ex-Soap  King.  "The  Eden  Musee'll  get  that  old  frozen  Nessel- 
rodc  yet,  if  he  don't  watch  out.  I'll  have  this  house  painted 
red  wliite  and  blue  next  summer,  and  see  if  that'll  make  his 
Dutch  nose  turn  up  any  higher." 

And  then  Anthony  Rockwall,  who  nev^er  cared  for  bells,  went 
to  the  door  of  his  library  and  shouted  "Mike!"  in  the  same 
voice  that  had  once  chipped  off  pieces  of  the  welkin  on  the  Kansas 
prairies. 

"Tell  my  son,"  said  Anthony  to  the  answering  menial,  "to 
come  in  here  before  he  leaves  the  house." 

When  young  Rockwall  entered  the  library  the  old  man  laid 
aside  his  newspaper,  looked  at  him  with  a  kindly  grimness  on 
his  big,  smooth,  ruddy  countenance,  rumpled  his  mop  of  white 
hair  with  one  hand  and  rattled  the  keys  in  his  pocket  with  the 
other. 

"Richard,"  said  Anthony  Rockwall,  "what  do  you  pay  for 
the  soap  that  you  use?" 

'  From  The  Pour  Million.  Doubleciay,  Page  and  Company.  Reprinted  by  per- 
mission. 


MAMMON  AND   THE  ARCHER  537 

Richard,  only  six  months  home  from  college,  was  startled  a 
little.  He  had  not  yet  taken  the  measure  of  this  sire  of  his,  who 
was  as  full  of  unexpectednesses  as  a  girl  at  her  first  party. 

''Six  dollars  a  dozen,  I  tliink,  dad." 

"And  your  clothes  ? " 

"I  suppose  about  sLxty  dollars,  as  a  rule." 

"You're  a  gentleman,"  said  Anthony,  decidedly.  "I've 
heard  of  these  young  bloods  spending  $24  a  dozen  for  soap, 
and  going  over  the  hundred  mark  for  clothes.  You've  got  as 
much  money  to  waste  as  any  of  'em,  and  yet  you  stick  to  what's 
decent  and  moderate.  Now  I  use  the  old  Eureka  —  not  only 
for  sentiment,  but  it's  the  purest  soap  made.  Whenever  you 
pay  more  than  ten  cents  a  cake  for  soap,  you  buy  bad  perfumes 
and  labels.  But  fifty  cents  is  doing  very  well  for  a  young 
man  in  your  generation,  position,  and  condition.  As  I  said, 
you're  a  gentleman.  They  say  it  takes  three  generations  to 
make  one.  They're  off.  Money'll  do  it  as  slick  as  soap  grease. 
It's  madeyou  one.  By  hokey  !  it's  almost  made  one  of  me.  I'm 
nearly  as  impolite  and  disagreeable  and  ill-mannered  as  these 
two  old  Knickerbocker  gents  on  each  side  of  me  that  can't 
sleep  of  nights  because  I  bought  in  between  'em." 

"There  are  some  things  that  money  can't  accomplish," 
remarked  young  Rockwall,  rather  gloomily. 

"Now,  don't  say  that,"  said  old  Anthony,  shocked.  "I  bet 
my  money  on  money  every  time.  I've  been  through  the  ency- 
clopaedia down  to  Y  looking  for  something  you  can't  buy  with 
it;  and  I  expect  to  have  to  take  up  the  appendix  next  week. 
I'm  for  money  against  the  field.  Tell  me  something  money 
won't  buy." 

"For  one  thing,"  answered  Richard,  rankling  a  little,  "it 
won't  buy  one  into  the  exclusive  circles  of  society." 

"Oho!  won't  it?"  thundered  the  champion  of  the  root  of 
evil.  "You  tell  me  where  your  exclusive  circles  would  be  if 
the  first  Astor  hadn't  had  the  money  to  pay  for  his  steerage 
passage  over  ?  " 

Richard  sighed. 

"And  that's  what  I  was  coming  to,"  said  the  old  man,  less 


538  SHORT  STORJI'lS 

boisterously.  ''That's  why  I  asked  you  to  come  in.  There's 
something  going  wrong  with  you,  boy.  I've  been  noticing  it 
for  two  weeks.  Out  with  it.  I  guess  I  could  lay  my  hands  on 
eleven  millions  within  twenty-four  hours,  besides  the  real 
esta.te.  If  it's  your  liver,  there's  the  Rambler  down  in  the  bay, 
coaled,  and  ready  to  steam  down  to  the  Bahamas  in  two  days." 

"Not  a  bad  guess,  dad ;  you  haven't  missed  it  far." 

"Ah,"  said  Anthony,  keenly;   "what's  her  name?" 

Richard  began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  library  floor.  There 
was  enough  comradeship  and  s^inpathy  in  this  crude  old  father 
of  his  to  draw  his  confidence. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  her?"  demanded  old  Anthony.  "She'll 
jump  at  you.  You've  got  the  money  and  the  looks,  and  you're 
a  decent  boy.  Your  hands  are  clean.  You've  got  no  Eureka 
soap  on  'em.     You've  been  to  college,  but  she'll  overlook  that." 

"I  haven't  had  a  chance,"  said  Richard. 

"Make  one,"  said  Anthony.  "Take  her  for  a  walk  in  the 
park,  or  a  straw  ride,  or  walk  home  with  her  from  church. 
Chance!    Pshaw!" 

"You  don't  know  the  social  mill,  dad.  She's  part  of  the 
stream  that  turns  it.  Every  hour  and  minute  of  her  time  is 
arranged  for  days  in  advance.  I  must  have  that  girl,  dad,  or 
this  town  is  a  blackjack  swamp  for  evermore.  And  I  can't 
write  it  —  I  can't  do  that." 

"Tut  I"  said  the  old  man.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that 
with  all  the  money  I've  got  you  can't  get  an  hour  or  two  of  a 
girl's  time  for  yourself?" 

"I've  put  it  off  too  late.  She's  going  to  sail  for  Europe  at 
noon  day  after  to-morrow  for  a  two  years'  stay.  I'm  to  see  her 
alone  to-morrow  evening  for  a  few  minutes.  She's  at  Larch- 
mont  now  at  her  aunt's.  I  can't  go  there.  But  I'm  allow'ed 
to  meet  her  with  a  cab  at  the  Grand  Central  Station  to-morrow 
evening  at  the  8 :  30  train.  We  drive  down  Broadway  to  Wal- 
lack's  at  a  gallop,  where  her  mother  and  a  box  party  will  be 
waiting  for  us  in  the  lobby.  Do  you  think  she  would  listen  to  a 
declaration  from  me  during  that  six  or  eight  minutes  under 
those  circumstances  ?    No.     And  what  chance  would  I  have  in 


MAMMON  AND   THE  ARCHER  539 

the  theatre  or  afterward?  None.  No,  dad,  this  is  one  tangle 
that  your  money  can't  unravel.  We  can't  buy  one  minute  of 
time  with  cash;  if  we  could,  rich  people  would  live  longer. 
There's  no  hope  of  getting  a  talk  with  Miss  Lantry  before  she 
sails." 

"All  right,  Richard,  my  boy,"  said  old  Anthony,  cheerfully. 
"You  may  run  along  down  to  your  club  now.  I'm  glad  it  ain't 
your  liver.  But  don't  forget  to  burn  a  few  punk  sticks  in  the 
joss  house  to  the  great  god  Mazuma  from  time  to  time.  You 
say  money  won't  buy  time?  Well,  of  course,  you  can't  order 
eternity  wrapped  up  and  delivered  at  your  residence  for  a  price, 
but  I've  seen  Father  Time  get  pretty  bad  stone  bruises  on  his 
heels  when  he  walked  through  the  gold  diggings." 

That  night  came  Aunt  Ellen,  gentle,  sentimental,  wrinkled, 
sighing,  oppressed  by  wealth,  in  to  Brother  Anthony  at  his 
evening  paper,  and  began  discourse  on  the  subject  of  lovers' 
woes. 

"He  told  me  all  about  it,"  said  brother  Anthony,  yawning. 
"I  told  him  my  bank  account  was  at  his  service.  And  then  he 
began  to  knock  money.  Said  money  couldn't  help.  Said  the 
rules  of  society  couldn't  be  bucked  for  a  yard  by  a  team  of  ten- 
millionaires." 

"Oh,  Anthony,"  sighed  Aunt  Ellen,  "I  wish  you  would  not 
think  so  much  of  money.  Wealth  is  nothing  where  a  true 
afEection  is  concerned.  Love  is  all-powerful.  If  he  had  only 
spoken  earher !  She  could  not  have  refused  our  Richard. 
But  now  I  fear  it  is  too  late.  He  will  have  no  opportunity 
to  address  her.  All  your  gold  cannot  bring  happiness  to 
your  son." 

At  eight  o'clock  the  next  evening  Aunt  Ellen  took  a  quaint 
old  gold  ring  from  a  moth-eaten  case  and  gave  it  to  Richard. 

"Wear  it  to-night,  nephew,"  she  begged.  "Your  mother 
gave  it  to  me.  Good  luck  in  love  she  said  it  brought.  She 
asked  me  to  give  it  to  you  when,  you  had  found  the  one  you 
loved." 

Young  Rockwall  took  the  ring  reverently  and  tried  it  on  his 
smallest  finger.     It  slipped  as  far  as  the  second  joint  and  stopped. 


540  SHORT  STORIES 

He  took  it  off  and  stulTod  it  into  his  vest  pocket,  after  the  man- 
ner of  man.     And  then  he  'phoned  for  his  cab. 

At  the  station  he  captured  Miss  Lantry  out  of  the  gadding 
mob  at  ei<;ht  thirty-two. 

"We  mustn't  keep  mamma  and  the  others  waiting,"  said  she. 

"To  Wallack's  Theatre  as  fast  as  you  can  drive  ! "  said  Richard 
loyally. 

They  whirled  up  Forty-second  to  Broadway,  and  then  down 
the  wliite-starred  lane  that  leads  from  the  soft  meadows  of  sun- 
set to  the  rocky  hills  of  morning. 

At  Thirty-fourth  Street  young  Richard  quickly  thrust  up  the 
trap  and  ordered  the  cabman  to  stop. 

"I've  dropped  a  ring,"  he  apologized,  as  he  chmbed  out. 
"It  was  my  mother's,  and  I'd  hate  to  lose  it.  I  won't  detain 
you  a  minute  —  I  saw  where  it  fell." 

In  less  than  a  minute  he  was  back  in  the  cab  with  the  ring. 

But  within  that  minute  a  crosstown  car  had  stopped  directly 
in  front  of  the  cab.  The  cabman  tried  to  pass  to  the  left,  but 
a  heavy  express  wagon  cut  him  off.  He  tried  the  right,  and  had 
to  back  away  from  a  furniture  van  that  had  no  business  to  be 
there.  He  tried  to  back  out,  but  dropped  his  reins  and  swore 
dutifully.  He  was  blockaded  in  a  tangled  mess  of  vehicles  and 
horses. 

One  of  those  street  blockades  had  occurred  that  sometimes 
tie  up  commerce  and  movement  quite  suddenly  in  the  big  city. 

"Whv  don't  vou  drive  on?"  said  Miss  Lantry,  impatiently. 
''We'U'be  late." 

Richard  stood  up  in  the  cab  and  looked  around.  He  saw  a 
congested  flood  of  wagons,  trucks,  cabs,  vans,  and  street  cars 
filling  the  vast  space  where  Broadway,  Sixth  Avenue,  and 
Thirty-fourth  street  cross  one  another  as  a  twenty-six  inch 
maiden  fills  her  twenty-two  inch  girdle.  And  still  from  all  the 
cross  streets  they  were  hurrying  and  rattling  toward  the  con- 
verging point  at  full  speed,,  and  hurUng  themselves  into  the 
struggling  mass,  locking  wheels  and  adding  their  drivers' 
imprecations  to  the  clamour.  The  entire  traffic  of  Manhattan 
seemed  to  have  jammed  itself  around  them.     The  oldest  New 


MAMMON  AND   THE  ARCHER  541 

Yorker  among  the  thousands  of  spectators  that  lined  the  side- 
walks had  not  witnessed  a  street  blockade  of  the  proportions 
of  this  one. 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Richard,  as  he  resumed  his  seat,  "but 
it  looks  as  if  we  were  stuck.  They  won't  get  this  jumble 
loosened  up  in  an  hour.  It  was  my  fault.  If  I  hadn't  dropped 
the  ring  we  — " 

"Let  me  see  the  ring,"  said  Miss  Lantry.  "Now  that  it 
can't  be  helped,  I  don't  care.  I  think  theatres  are  stupid, 
anyway." 

At  eleven  o'clock  that  night  somebody  tapped  lightly  on 
Anthony  Rockwall's  door. 

"Come  in,"  shouted  Anthony,  who  was  in  a  red  dressing- 
gown,  reading  a  book  of  piratical  adventures. 

Somebody  was  Aunt  Ellen,  looking  Hke  a  gray-haired  angel 
that  had  been  left  on  earth  by  mistake. 

"They're  engaged,  Anthony,"  she  said,  softly.  "She  has 
promised  to  marry  our  Richard.  On  their  way  to  the  theatre 
there  was  a  street  blockade,  and  it  was  two  hours  before  their 
cab  could  get  out  of  it.  And  oh,  brother  Anthony,  don't 
ever  boast  of  the  power  of  money  again.  A  little  emblem  of 
true  love  —  a  httle  ring  that  symbolized  unending  and  un- 
mercenary  affection  —  was  the  cause  of  our  Richard  finding 
his  happiness.  He  dropped  it  in  the  street,  and  got  out  to 
recover  it.  And  before  they  could  continue  the  blockade 
occurred.  He  spoke  to  his  love  and  won  her  there  while  the 
cab  was  hemmed  in.  Money  is  dross  compared  with  true  love, 
Anthony." 

"All  right,"  said  old  Anthony.  "I'm  glad  the  boy  has  got 
what  he  wanted.  I  told  him  I  wouldn't  spare  any  expense  in 
the  matter  if  —  " 

"But,  brother  Anthony,  what  good  could  your  money  have 
done?" 

"Sister,"  said  Anthony  Rockwall,  "I've  got  my  pirate  in  a 
devil  of  a  shape.  His  ship  has  just  been  scuttled,  and  he's  too 
good  a  judge  of  the  value  of  money  to  let  drown.  I  wish  you 
would  let  me  go  on  with  this  chapter." 


54-^ 


SHORT  STORIES 


TIk'  slory  should  end  here.  I  wish  it  would  as  heartily  asyou 
who  read  it  wish  it  did.  But  wc  must  go  to  the  bottom  of  the 
well  for  truth. 

The  next  day  a  person  with  red  hands  and  a  blue  polka-dot 
necktie,  who  called  himself  Kelly,  called  at  Anthony  Rockwall's 
house,  and  was  at  once  received  in  the  library. 

"Well,"  said  Anthony,  reaching  for  his  cheque-book,  "it  was 
a  good  bilin'  of  soap.     Let's  see  — you  had  S5000  in  cash." 

"I  paid  out  S300  more  of  my  own,"  said  Kelly.  "I  had  to  go 
a  little  above  the  estimate.  I  got  the  express  wagons  and  cabs 
mostly  for  S5 ;  but  the  trucks  and  two-horse  teams  mostly 
raised  me  to  Sio.  The  motormen  wanted  Sio,  and  some  of  the 
loaded  teams  S20.  The  cops  struck  me  hardest  —  S50  I  paid 
two,  and  the  rest  S20  and  S25.  But  didn't  it  work  beautiful, 
Mr.  Rockwall  ?  I'm  glad  William  A.  Brady  wasn't  on  to  that 
little  outdoor  vehicle  mob  scene.  I  wouldn't  want  William  to 
break  his  heart  with  jealousy.  And  never  a  rehearsal,  either. 
The  boys  was  on  time  to  the  fraction  of  a  second.  It  was  two 
hours  before  a  snake  could  get  below  Greeley's  statue." 

"Thirteen  hundred  —  there  you  are,  Kelly,"  said  Anthony, 
tearing  off  a  check.  "Your  thousand,  and  the  S300  you  were 
out.     You  don't  despise  money,  do  you,  Kelly?" 

"Me?"  said  Kelly.  "I  can  lick  the  man  that  invented 
poverty." 

Anthony  called  Kelly  when  he  was  at  the  door. 

"You  didn't  notice,"  said  he,  "anywhere  in  the  tie-up,  a 
kind  of  a  fat  boy  without  any  clothes  on  shooting  arrows  around 
with  a  bow,  did  you?" 

"Why,  no,"  said  Kelly,  mystified.  "I  didn't.  If  he  was 
like  you  say,  maybe  the  cops  pinched  him  before  I  got  there." 

"I  thought  the  little  rascal  wouldn't  be  on  hand,"  chuckled 
Anthony.     ' '  Good-by ,  Kelly. " 


V.   LETTERS 
DEAN   SWIFT  TO   STELLA 

London,  Nov.  15,  171 2. 

Before  this  comes  to  your  hands,  you  will  have  heard  of  the 
most  terrible  accident  that  hath  almost  ever  happened.  This 
morning  at  eight,  my  man  brought  me  word  that  Duke  Hamil- 
ton had  fought  with  Lord  Mohun,  and  killed  him,  and  was 
brought  home  wounded.  I  immediately  sent  him  to  the  Duke's 
house,  in  St.  James's  Square ;  but  the  porter  could  hardly  an- 
swer for  tears,  and  a  great  rabble  was  about  the  house.  In 
short,  they  fought  at  seven  this  morning.  The  dog  Mohun  was 
killed  on  the  spot ;  and,  while  the  duke  was  over  him,  Mohun 
shortened  his  sword,  stabbed  him  in  at  the  shoulder  to  the 
heart.  The  duke  was  helped  toward  the  cake-house  by  the 
ring  in  Hyde  Park  (where  they  fought),  and  died  on  the  grass, 
before  he  could  reach  the  house ;  and  was  brought  home  in  his 
coach  by  eight,  while  the  poor  duchess  was  asleep.  Macartney, 
and  one  Hamilton,  were  the  seconds,  who  fought  likewise,  and 
are  both  fled.  I  am  told,  that  a  footman  of  Lord  Mohun's 
stabbed  Duke  Hamilton ;  and  some  say  Macartney  did  so  too. 
Mohun  gave  the  affront,  and  yet  sent  the  challenge.  I  am 
infinitely  concerned  for  the  poor  duke,  who  was  a  frank,  honest, 
good-natured  man.  I  loved  him  very  well,  and  I  think  he  loved 
me  better.  He  had  the  greatest  mind  in  the  world  to  have  nie 
go  with  him  to  France,  but  durst  not  tell  it  me ;  and  those  he 
did  tell,  said  I  could  not  be  spared,  which  was  true.  They  have 
removed  the  poor  duchess  to  a  lodging  in  the  neighborhood, 
where  I  have  been  with  her  two  hours,  and  am  just  come  away. 
I  never  saw  so  melancholy  a  scene ;  for  indeed  all  reasons  for 
real  grief  belong  to  her ;   nor  is  it  possible  for  anybody  to  be  a 

543 


544  LETTERS 

greater  loser  in  all  regards.  She  has  moved  my  very  soul.  The 
lodging  was  inconvenient,  and  they  would  have  removed  her  to 
another ;  but  I  would  not  suffer  it,  because  it  had  no  room  back- 
ward, and  she  must  have  been  tortured  with  the  noise  of  the 
Grub  Street  screamers  mentioning  her  husband's  murder  in  her 
ears. 

SAMUEL  JOHNSON  TO  LORD   CHESTERFIELD 

7th  February,  1755. 
My  Lord  — 

I  have  been  lately  informed,  by  the  proprietor  of  The  World, 
that  two  papers,  in  which  my  Dictionary  is  recommended  to  the 
public,  were  written  ])y  your  lordship.  To  be  so  distinguished 
is  an  honor,  which,  being  very  little  accustomed  to  favors  from 
the  great,  I  know  not  well  how  to  receive,  or  in  what  terms  to 
acknowledge. 

When,  upon  some  slight  encouragement,  I  first  visited  your 
lordship.  I  was  overpowered,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  by  the 
enchantment  of  your  address,  and  could  not  forbear  to  wish 
that  I  might  boast  myself  Le  vainqueur  du  vainqueur  de  la  terre; 
—  that  I  might  obtain  that  regard  for  which  I  saw  the  world 
contending ;  but  I  found  my  attendance  so  little  encouraged, 
that  neither  pride  nor  modesty  would  suffer  me  to  continue  it. 
When  I  had  once  addressed  your  Lordship  in  public,  I  had 
exhausted  all  the  art  of  pleasing  which  a  retired  and  uncourtly 
scholar  can  possess.  I  had  done  all  that  I  could ;  and  no  man 
is  well  pleased  to  have  his  all  neglected,  be  it  ever  so  little. 

Seven  years,  my  lord,  have  now  past,  since  I  waited  in  your 
outward  rooms,  or  was  repulsed  from  your  door ;  during  which 
time  I  have  been  pushing  on  my  work  through  difficulties,  of 
which  it  is  useless  to  complain,  and  have  brought  it,  at  last,  to 
the  verge  of  publication,  without  one  act  of  assistance,  one  word 
of  encouragement,  or  one  smile  of  favor.  Such  treatment  I 
did  not  expect,  for  I  never  had  a  patron  before. 

The  shepherd  in  Virgil  grew  at  last  acquainted  with  Love, 
ind  found  him  a  native  of  the  rocks. 


CHARLES  LAMB    TO  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH  545 

Is  not  a  patron,  my  lord,  one  who  looks  with  unconcern  on  a 
man  struggling  for  life  in  the  water,  and,  when  he  has  reached 
ground,  encumbers  him  with  help  ?  The  notice  which  you  have 
been  pleased  to  take  of  my  labors,  had  it  been  early,  had  been 
kind ;  but  it  has  been  delayed  till  I  am  indifferent,  and  cannot 
enjoy  it ;  till  I  am  solitary,  and  cannot  impart  it ;  till  I  am 
known,  and  do  not  want  it.  I  hope  it  is  no  very  cynical  asperity 
not  to  confess  obligations  where  no  benefit  has  been  received,  or 
to  be  unwilling  that  the  public  should  consider  me  as  owing  that 
to  a  patron,  which  providence  has  enabled  me  to  do  for  myself. 

Having  carried  on  my  work  thus  far  with  so  little  obligation 
to  any  favorer  of  learning,  I  shall  not  be  disappointed  though 
I  should  conclude  it,  if  less  be  possible,  with  less;  for  I  have 
been  long  wakened  from  that  dream  of  hope,  in  which  I  once 
boasted  myself  with  so  much  exultation. 

My  Lord, 
Your  lordship's  most  humble,  most  obedient  servant, 

Sam.  Johnson. 

CHARLES    LAMB    TO  WILLIAM   WORDSWORTH 

January  30,  1801. 

I  ought  before  this  to  have  replied  to  your  very  kind  invita- 
tion to  Cumberland.  With  you  and  your  sister  I  could  gang 
anywhere ;  but  I  am  afraid  whether  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  afford 
so  desperate  a  journey.  Separate  from  the  pleasure  of  your 
company,  I  don't  much  care  if  I  never  see  a  mountain  in  my  life. 
I  have  passed  all  my  days  in  London,  until  I  have  formed  as 
many  and  intense  local  attachments  as  any  of  you  mountaineers 
can  have  done  with  dead  Nature.  The  lighted  shops  of  the 
Strand  and  Fleet  Street ;  the  innumerable  trades,  tradesmen, 
and  customers,  coaches,  wagons,  playhouses;  all  the  bustle 
and  wickedness  round  about  Covent  Garden ;  the  very  women 
of  the  Town ;  the  watchmen,  drunken  scenes,  rattles ;  life  awake, 
if  you  awake,  at  all  hours  of  the  night ;  the  impossibility  of 
being  dull  in  Fleet  Street ;  the  crowds,  the  very  dirt  and  mud, 


546  LETTERS 

the  sun  shining  upon  houses  and  pavements,  the  print  shops, 
the  old  bookstalls,  parsons  cheapening  books,  cofTee-houses, 
steams  of  soups  from  kitchens,  the  pantomimes  —  London 
itself  a  j)antomime  and  a  mas(|uerade  —  all  these  things  work 
themselves  inlt)  my  mind,  and  feed  me,  without  a  power  of 
satiating  me.  The  wonder  of  these  sights  impels  me  into  night- 
walks  about  her  crowded  streets,  and  I  often  shed  tears  in  the 
motley  Strand  from  fulness  of  joy  at  so  much  life.  All  these 
emotions  must  be  strange  to  you ;  so  are  your  rural  emotions 
to  me.  But  consider,  what  must  I  have  been  doing  all  my  life, 
not  to  have  lent  great  portions  of  my  heart  with  usury  to  such 
scenes  ? 

My  attachments  are  all  local,  purely  local.  I  have  no  pas- 
sion (or  have  had  none  since  I  was  in  love,  and  then  it  was  the 
spurious  engendering  of  poetry  and  books)  for  groves  and 
valleys.  The  rooms  where  I  was  born,  the  furniture  which  has 
been  before  my  eyes  all  my  life,  a  book-case  which  has  followed 
me  about  like  a  faithful  dog  (only  e.xceeding  him  in  knowledge), 
wherever  I  have  moved,  old  chairs,  old  tables,  streets,  squares, 
where  I  have  sunned  myself,  my  old  school.  —  these  are  my 
mistresses.  Have  I  not  enough,  wuthout  your  mountains? 
I  do  not  envy  you.  I  should  pity  you,  did  I  not  know  that  the 
mind  will  make  friends  of  anything.  Your  sun,  and  moon, 
and  skies,  and  hills,  and  lakes,  affect  me  no  more,  or  scarcely 
come  to  me  in  more  venerable  characters,  than  as  a  gilded  room 
with  tapestry  and  tapers,  where  I  might  live  with  handsome 
\-isible  objects.  I  consider  the  clouds  above  me  but  as  a  roof 
beautifully  painted,  but  unable  to  satisfy  my  mind :  and  at 
last,  like  the  pictures  of  the  apartment  of  a  connoisseur,  unable 
to  afford  him  any  longer  a  pleasure.  So  fading  upon  me,  from 
disuse,  have  been  the  beauties  of  Nature,  as  they  have  been 
contlnedly  called  ;  so  ever  fresh,  and  green,  and  warm  are  all 
the  inventions  of  men,  and  assemblies  of  men  in  this  great  city. 
I  should  certainly  have  laughed  with  dear  Joanna. 

Give  my  kindest  love  and  my  sister's  to  D.  and  yourself; 
and  a  kiss  from  me  to  little  Barbara  Lewthwaite.  Thank  you 
for  liking  my  play.  C.  L 


CHARLES  DARWIN   TO  W.   D.  FOX  547 

CHARLES   DARWIN  TO  W.   D.   FOX  ^ 

Down,  March  19th  (1855). 
My  dear  Fox,  — 

How  long  it  is  since  we  have  had  any  communication,  and 
I  really  want  to  hear  how  the  world  goes  with  you ;  but  my 
immediate  object  is  to  ask  you  to  observe  a  point  for  me,  and 
as  I  know  now  you  are  a  very  busy  man  with  too  much  to  do, 
I  shall  have  a  good  chance  of  your  doing  what  I  want,  as  it  would 
be  hopeless  to  ask  a  quite  idle  man.  As  you  have  a  Noah's 
Ark,  I  do  not  doubt  that  you  have  pigeons.  (How  I  wish  by 
any  chance  they  were  fantails  !)  Now  what  I  want  to  know  is, 
at  what  age  nestling  pigeons  have  their  tail  feathers  sufficiently 
developed  to  be  counted.  I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw  a  young 
pigeon.  I  am  hard  at  work  at  my  notes  collecting  and  com- 
paring them,  in  order  in  some  two  or  three  years  to  write  a  book 
with  all  the  facts  and  arguments,  which  I  can  collect, /or  and 
versus,  the  immutability  of  species.  I  want  to  get  the  young  of 
our  domestic  breeds,  to  see  how  young,  and  to  what  degree,  the 
differences  appear.  I  must  either  breed  myself  (which  is  no 
amusement  but  a  horrid  bore  to  me)  the  pigeons  or  buy  their 
young ;  and  before  I  go  to  a  seller,  whom  I  have  heard  of  from 
Yarrell,  I  am  really  anxious  to  know  something  about  their  de- 
velopment, not  to  expose  my  excessive  ignorance,  and  therefore 
be  excessively  liable  to  be  cheated  and  gulled.  With  respect 
to  the  one  point  of  the  tail  feathers,  it  is  of  course  in  relation 
to  the  wonderful  development  of  tail  feathers  in  the  adult  fan- 
tail.  If  you  had  any  breed  of  poultry  pure,  I  would  beg  a  chicken 
with  exact  age  stated,  about  a  week  or  fortnight  old ;  to  be  sent 
in  a  box  by  post,  if  you  could  have  the  heart  to  kill  one ;  and 
secondly,  would  let  me  pay  postage.  .  .  .  Indeed,  I  should 
be  very  glad  to  have  a  nestling  common  pigeon  sent,  for  I  mean 
to  make  skeletons,  and  have  already  just  begun  com])aring  wild 
and  tame  ducks.  And  I  think  the  results  rather  curious,  for 
on  weighing  the  several  bones  very  carefully,  when  perfectly 

'  From  Letters  of  Charles  Darwin.    John  Murray,  1887. 


548  LETTERS 

cleaned  the  proportimuil  weiglits  of  the  two  liavc  greatly  varied, 
the  foot  of  the  tame  having  largely  increased.  How  I  wish 
I  coulil  get  a  little  wild  iluck  of  a  week  old,  but  that  I  know  is 
almost  impossible. 

With  respect  to  ourselves,  I  have  not  much  to  say ;  we  have 
now  a  terribly  noisy  house  with  the  whooping  cough,  but  other- 
wise are  all  well.  Far  the  greatest  fact  about  myself  is  that  I 
have  at  last  quite  done  with  the  everlasting  barnacles.  At 
the  end  of  the  year  we  had  two  of  our  little  boys  very  ill  with 
fever  and  bronchitis,  and  all  sorts  of  ailments.  Partly  for 
amusements,  and  partly  for  change  of  air,  we  went  to  London 
and  took  a  house  for  a  month,  but  it  turned  out  a  great  failure, 
for  that  dreadful  frost  just  set  in  when  we  went,  and  all  our 
children  got  unwell,  and  E.  and  I  had  coughs  and  colds  and 
rheumatism  nearly  all  the  time.  We  had  put  down  first  on  our 
list  of  things  to  do,  to  go  and  see  Mrs.  Fox,  but  literally  after 
waiting  some  time  to  see  whether  the  weather  would  not  im- 
prove, we  had  not  a  day  when  we  both  could  go  out. 

I  do  hope  before  very  long  you  will  be  able  to  manage  to  pay 
us  a  ^^sit.  Time  is  slipping  away,  and  we  are  getting  oldish. 
Do  tell  us  about  yourself  and  all  your  large  family. 

I  know  you  will  help  me  if  you  can  with  information  about 
the  young  pigeons ;  and  anyhow  do  write  before  very  long. 
My  dear  Fox,  your  sincere  old  friend, 
C.  Darwin. 

ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  TO  MRS.   BIXBY 

November  21,  1864. 
Mrs.  Bixby, 
Boston,  Massachusetts. 

Deak  Madam,  — 

I  have  been  shown  in  the  files  of  the  War  Department  a 
statement  of  the  Adjutant-General  of  Massachusetts  that  you 
are  the  mother  of  five  sons  who  have  died  gloriously  on  the  field 
of  battle.     I  feel  how  weak  and  fruitless  must  be  any  words  of 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  TO  CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON      549 

mine  which  should  attempt  to  beguile  you  from  the  grief  of  a 
loss  so  overwhelming.  But  I  cannot  refrain  from  tendering  to 
you  the  consolation  that  may  be  found  in  the  thanks  of  the 
Republic  they  died  to  save.  I  pray  that  our  heavenly  Father 
may  assuage  the  anguish  of  your  bereavement,  and  leave  you 
only  the  cherished  memory  of  the  loved  and  lost,  and  the  solemn 
pride  that  must  be  yours  to  have  laid  so  costly  a  sacrifice  upon 
the  altar  of  freedom. 

Yours  very  sincerely  and  respectfully, 

Abraham  Lincoln. 


JAMES   RUSSELL  LOWELL  TO   CHARLES   ELIOT 
NORTON ' 

Paris,  December  4,  1872. 

.  .  .  Oddly  enough  when  I  got  your  letter  about  Tennyson's 
poem  I  had  just  finished  reading  a  real  Arthurian  romance  — 
"Fergus"  —  not  one  of  the  best,  certainly,  but  having  that 
merit  of  being  a  genuine  blossom  for  which  no  triumph  of  arti- 
fice can  compensate ;  having,  in  short,  that  woodsy  hint  and 
tantalization  of  perfume  which  is  so  infinitely  better  than  any- 
thing more  defined.  Emerson  had  left  me  Tennyson's  book ; 
so  last  night  I  took  it  to  bed  with  me  and  finished  it  at  a  gulp 
—  reading  like  a  naughty  boy  till  half -past  one.  The  contrast 
between  his  pomp  and  my  old  rhymer's  simpleness  was  very 
curious  and  even  instructive.  One  bit  of  the  latter  (which  I 
cannot  recollect  elsewhere)  amused  me  a  good  deal  as  a  Yankee. 
When  Fergus  comes  to  Arthur's  court  and  Sir  Kay  "sarses" 
him  (which,  you  know,  is  de  rigeur  in  the  old  poems).  Sir  Gawain 
saunters  up  whittling  a  stick  as  a  medicine  against  ennui.  So 
afterwards,  when  Arthur  is  dreadfully  bored  by  hearing  no  news 
of  Fergus,  he  reclines  at  table  without  any  taste  for  his  dinner, 
and  whittles  to  purge  his  heart  of  melancholy.  I  suppose  a 
modern  poet  would  not  dare  to  come  so  near  Nature  as  this 

'  From  Letters  of  James  Russell  Lowell.  Copyright,  1893,  by  Harper  and  Brothers. 
Reprinted  by  permission. 


55©  LETTERS 

lest  she  should  flinj:;  up  her  heels.  But  I  am  not  yet  "afT  wi'  the 
auld  love,"  nor  quite  "on  with  the  new."  There  are  very  fine 
childish  things  in  Tennyson's  poem  and  fine  manly  things,  too, 
as  it  seems  to  me,  but  I  conceive  the  theory  to  be  wrong.  I  have 
the  same  feeling  (I  am  not  wholly  sure  of  its  justice)  that  I  have 
when  I  see  these  modern  mediaeval  pictures.  I  am  defrauded ; 
I  do  not  see  reality,  but  a  masquerade.  The  costumes  are  all 
that  is  genuine,  and  the  people  inside  them  are  shams  —  which, 
I  take  it,  is  just  the  reverse  of  what  ought  to  be.  One  special 
criticism  I  should  make  on  Tennyson's  new'  Idyls,  and  that  is 
that  the  similes  are  so  often  dragged  in  by  the  hair.  They 
seem  to  be  taken  (a  la  Tom  Moore)  from  note-books,  and  not 
suggested  by  the  quickened  sense  of  association  in  the  glow  of 
composition.  Sometimes  it  almost  seems  as  if  the  verses  were 
made  for  the  similes,  instead  of  being  the  cresting  of  a  wave 
that  heightens  as  it  rolls.  This  is  analogous  to  the  costume  ob- 
jection and  springs  perhaps  from  the  same  cause  —  the  making 
of  poetry  with  malice  prepense.  However,  I  am  not  going  to 
forget  the  lovely  things  that  Tennyson  has  written,  and  I  think 
they  give  him  rather  hard  measure  now.  However,  it  is  the 
natural  recoil  of  a  too  rapid  fame.  Wordsworth  had  the  true 
kind  —  an  unpopularity  that  roused  and  stimulated  while  he 
was  strong  enough  to  despise  it,  and  honor,  obedience,  troops  of 
friends,  when  the  grasshopper  would  have  been  a  burthen  to 
the  drooping  shoulders.  Tennyson,  to  be  sure,  has  been  child- 
ishly petulant ;  but  what  have  these  whipper-snappers,  who 
cry  "Go  up,  baldhead,"  done  that  can  be  named  with  some 
things  of  his  ?  He  has  been  the  greatest  artist  in  words  we  have 
had  since  Gray  —  and  remember  how  Gray  holds  his  own  with 
little  fuel,  but  real  fire.  He  had  the  secret  of  the  inconsumable 
oil,  and  so,  I  fancy,  has  Tennyson. 

I  keep  on  picking  up  books  here  and  there,  but  I  shall  be  forced 
to  stop,  for  I  find  I  have  got  beyond  my  income.  Still,  I  shall 
try  gradually  to  make  my  Old  French  and  Provencal  collection 
tolerably  complete,  for  the  temptation  is  great  where  the  field 
is  definitely  bounded  .  .  . 


R.   L.  S.    TO  W.   E.   HENLEY  551 

R.   L.   S.   TO  W.   E.   HENLEY  1 

Br^mar,  August,  1881. 
My  dear  Henley,  — 

Of  course  I  am  a  rogue.  Why,  Lord,  it's  known,  man ;  but 
you  should  remember  I  have  had  a  horrid  cold.  Now  I'm  better, 
I  think ;  and  see  here  —  nobody,  not  you,  nor  Lang,  nor  the 
devil,  will  hurry  me  with  our  crawlers.  They  are  coming. 
Four  of  them  are  as  good  as  done,  and  the  rest  will  come  when 
ripe ;  but  I  am  now  on  another  lay  for  the  moment,  purely  ow- 
ing to  Lloyd,  this  one ;  but  I  believe  there's  more  coin  in  it  than 
in  any  amount  of  crawlers:  now,  see  here,  "The  Sea-Cook,  or 
Treasure  Island:    A  Story  for  Boys." 

If  this  don't  fetch  the  kids,  why,  they  have  gone  rotten  since 
my  days.  Will  you  be  surprised  to  learn  that  it  is  about  Buc- 
caneers, that  it  begins  in  the  Admiral  Benbow  public-house  on 
Devon  coast,  that  it's  all  about  a  map,  and  a  treasure,  and  a 
mutiny,  and  a  derelict  ship,  and  a  current,  and  a  fine  old  Squire 
Trelawney  (the  real  Tre,  purged  of  literature  and  sin,  to  suit 
the  infant  mind),  and  a  doctor,  and  another  doctor,  and  a  sea- 
song  with  the  chorus,  "Yo-ho-ho  and  a  bottle  of  rum"  (at  the 
third  Ho  you  heave  at  the  capstan  bars),  which  is  a  real  buc- 
caneer's song,  only  known  to  the  crew  of  the  late  Captain  Flint 
(died  of  rum  at  Key  West,  much  regretted,  friends  will  please 
accept  this  intimation) ;  and  lastly,  would  you  be  surprised  to 
hear,  in  this  connection,  the  name  of  Routledge?  That's  the 
kind  of  man  I  am,  blast  your  eyes.  Two  chapters  are  written, 
and  have  been  tried  on  Lloyd  with  great  success ;  the  trouble 
is  to  work  it  off  without  oaths.  Buccaneers  without  oaths  — 
bricks  without  straw.  But  youth  and  the  fond  parent  have  to 
be  consulted. 

And  now  look  here  —  this  is  next  day  —  and  three  chapters 
are  written  and  read.  (Chapter  I.  The  Old  Sea-dog  at  the 
Admiral  Benbow.     Chapter  II.     Black  dog  appears  and  dis- 

'  From  Lellers  oj  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Charles  Scribner's  Sons.  Reprinted  by 
permission. 


:>.^- 


LETTERS 


appears.  Chapter  TIT.  The  Black  Spot.)  All  now  heard  by 
Lloyd.  F.,  and  my  father  and  mother,  with  high  approval. 
It's  quite  silly  and  horrid  fun,  and  what  I  want  is  the  best  book 
about  the  buccaneers  that  can  be  had  —  the  latter  B's  above  all, 
Blackbeard  and  sich,  and  get  Xutt  or  Bain  to  send  it  skimmingly 
by  the  fastest  post.  And  now  I  know  you'll  write  to  me  for 
"The  Sea-Cook's"  sake. 

Your  "Admiral  Guinea"  is  curiously  near  my  line,  but  of 
course  I'm  fooling;  and  your  Admiral  sounds  like  a  shublime 
gent.  Stick  to  him  like  wax  —  he'll  do.  !My  Trelawney  is, 
as  I  indicate,  several  thousand  sea-miles  off  the  lie  of  the  original 
of  your  Admiral  Guinea ;  and  besides,  I  have  no  more  about 
him  yet  but  one  mention  of  his  name,  and  I  think  it  likely  he 
may  turn  yet  farther  from  the  model  in  the  course  of  handling. 
A  chapter  a  day  I  mean  to  do  ;  they  are  short ;  and  perhaps  in  a 
month  "The  Sea-Cook"  may  to  Routledge  go,  yo-ho-ho  and  a 
bottle  of  rum  !  My  Trelawney  has  a  strong  dash  of  Landor,  as 
I  see  him  from  here.  No  women  in  the  story,  Lloyd's  orders ; 
and  who  so  blithe  to  obey  ?  It's  awful  fun,  boys'  stories ;  you 
just  indulge  the  pleasure  of  your  heart,  that's  all ;  no  trouble, 
no  strain.  The  only  stiff  thing  is  to  get  it  ended  —  that  I  don't 
see,  but  I  look  to  a  volcano.  O  sweet,  O  generous,  0  human 
toils  !  You  would  like  my  blind  beggar  in  Chapter  III,  I  be- 
lieve; no  writing,  just  drive  along  as  the  words  come  and  the 
pen  will  scratch  I 

R.  L.  S. 
Author  of  Boys^  Stories. 


APPENDIX   I.     STUDENT  THEMES 

I.   EXPOSITION 

OUTLINE:     THE    MANUFACTURE   OF  MALLEABLE  IRON 

I.   Introduction. 

A .  Malleable  iron  differs  from  gray  or  cast  iron 

1 .  In  its  physical  qualities  ;  being 

a.  Softer,  less  brittle,  and  capable  of  being  beaten  out 

like  lead,  though  in  a  less  degree ; 

b.  Much  stronger  under  tension  ;  and 

c.  Much  better  able  to  resist  a  jarring  shock. 

2.  In  its  chemical  composition,  since 

a.  The  free  carbon  it  contains  is  amorphous,  not  gra- 

phitic —  i.e.  is  scattered,  minutely  divided,  through- 
out the  mass,  not  segregated  in  flakes  as  in  gray 
iron,  and 

b.  There  is  less  sulphur  and  phosphorus  present. 

B.  Two  main  processes  are  involved  in  the  manufacture  of 

malleable  iron : 

1.  The  making  of  white  iron,  and 

2.  The  conversion  of  this  white  iron  into  malleable  iron. 
II.  Details  of  the  manufacture. 

A.   Making  the  white  iron. 

I.  The  material  used  comprises  a  mixture  of 

a.  Pig  iron,  including 

(a)  Charcoal  pig  —  smelted  with  charcoal  instead  of 

coke  as  fuel ; 

(b)  Malleable  Bessemer  pig  —  an  ordinary  pig  iron 

containing  less  sulphur  and  phosphorus  than  the 
"foundry  pig"  used  in  the  manufacture  of  gray 
iron. 

b.  Scrap  iron  —  consisting  of 

(a)  Malleable  scrap  —  worn  out  malleable  iron  cast- 
ings, 

553 


554 


APPENDIX.    STIDEST   THEMES 


(b)  Steel  scrap  —  old  steel  rails  and  worn  out  stce\ 

castings,  and 
(f)  "Sprue"  —  the   waste  iron   left    over    from    the 
previous  day,  etc. 
2.  The  material  is  melted 

(7.  In  a  cupola  —  a  vast  hollow  cylinder  in  which  the 
fuel  (coke)  and  the  material  are  placed  in  alternate 
layers,  the  material  being  melted  in  direct  contact 
with  the  fuel,  or,  preferably, 
b.  In  an  air-furnace  which  consists  of 

(a)  A  tire-box,  in  which  a  huge  fire  is  kept  up  with  good 

gas-coal  as  fuel,  and 
(6)  A  melting-hearth,  containing  the  material  to  be 
melted.     This  is  separated   from   the  fire-box 
by  a  low  wall,  over  which  the  flame  from  the 
fire  is  driven  by  a  forced  draught. 
B.   The  anneahng  process,  which  converts  the  white  iron  into 
malleable 

1.  Consists  in  slowdy  heating  the  white  iron  product  (tightly 

packed  with  iron  oxide  in  ovens)  to  a  temperature  of 
about  i6oo°  F.  and  letting  it  gradually  cool  down,  and 

2.  Causes  great  changes  in  the  nature  of  the  iron,  as  regards 

a.  Its  chemical  composition  —  the  carbon,  which  in  the 

white  iron  has  been  chemically  combined  with  the 
metal  as  iron  carbide,  being  separated  out  and  dis- 
tributed through  the  mass  in  a  free  form,  mechani- 
cally mixed  with  the  iron,  and 

b.  Its   physical   quahties,    the   hard   brittle   metal   first 

obtained  being  converted  into  the  soft,  strong,  and 
durable  product  descriljcd  in  the  beginning. 
III.    Conclusion. 

A.  It  is  evident  that  the  double  process  involved  is  both  com- 

plicated and  expensive. 

B.  The  superior  quality  of  the  metal  obtained  more  than  repays 

the  difficulties  of  its  manufacture. 

THE  MANUFACTURE   OF   MALLEABLE   IRON 

The  vast  majority  of  iron  castings  made  to-day  are  of  either  mal- 
leable or  gray  iron.  We  intend  in  this  paper  to  concern  ourselves 
only  with  the  former ;   but  a  brief  comparison  —  or  rather  contrast 


i 


EXPOSITION 


555 


—  of  its  qualities  with  those  of  gray  iron  will  be  of  great  assistance 
towards  the  comprehension  of  the  subject. 

Malleable  iron,  then,  differs  from  gray  iron  both  in  its  physical 
properties  and  in  its  chemical  composition.  It  is  softer  and  less 
brittle,  and  can  be  beaten  out  like  lead  —  though,  needless  to  say,  to 
a  very  much  less  degree.  It  is  also  stronger  under  tension  and  better 
able  to  resist  a  jarring  shock.  These  qualities  make  it  in  every  way 
the  superior  metal ;  it  is,  indeed,  kept  from  supplanting  gray  iron 
entirely  only  by  the  fact  that  it  is  approximately  twice  as  expensive. 

The  constituent  elements  in  the  chemical  composition  of  the  two 
irons  are  identical ;  for  the  analytical  chemist  a  slight  difference  in 
the  form  or  proportions  of  these  elements  alone  distinguishes  malleable 
from  gray  iron.  Each  contains  about  ninety-six  per  cent  of  pure 
iron,  mixed  or  combined  with  varying  proportions  of  carbon,  siUcon, 
sulphur,  phosphorus,  and  manganese.  The  soft  and  pliable  nature 
of  malleable  iron  is  chiefly  due  to  the  state  of  the  free  carbon  it  con- 
tains. This  is  amorphous  rather  than  graphitic ;  in  other  words,  it 
is  scattered  evenly  and  minutely  divided  throughout  the  mass,  not 
segregated  in  flakes,  as  in  gray  iron.  The  fact  that  sulphur  and 
phosphorus  are  present  in  far  smaller  quantities  also  adds  consider- 
ably to  its  strength,  as  those  two  elements  always  tend  to  make  the 
metal  more  brittle. 

Such  are  the  qualities  of  malleable  iron.  The  processes  involved 
in  its  manufacture  are,  essentially,  two.  In  the  first  place,  the  ma- 
terial is  prepared  in  the  form  of  white  iron  —  the  hardest  and  most 
brittle  form  of  iron  known ;  in  the  second  place,  this  white  iron  is 
converted  by  a  special  heat  treatment  into  the  finished  malleable 
product. 

We  are  first  concerned  with  the  making  of  the  white  iron.  For  this, 
pig  iron  and  scrap  iron  in  almost  equal  proportions  provide  the  ma- 
terial. The  pig  used  consists  of  malleable  Bessemer  —  an  ordinary 
pig  iron  containing  less  sulphur  and  phosphorus  than  the  "foundry 
pig"  used  in  the  manufacture  of  gray  iron  —  or,  preferably,  of  char- 
coal pig,  which  has  been  melted  with  charcoal  in  place  of  coke  as  fuel. 
The  superiority  of  the  latter  is  due  to  the  practically  negligible  amount 
of  sulphur  it  contains.  Of  the  scrap  iron  used,  three-fourths  consists 
usually  of  "sprue,"  as  it  is  called.  This  comprises  the  waste  iron 
left  over  from  the  previous  day,  the  metal  from  the  channels  in  the 
moulds  through  which  it  ran  to  form  the  castings,  the  shop  "sweep- 
ings," etc.     The  remaining  fourth  is  made  up  of  equal  amounts  of 


55(>  APPEXDIX.    STL'DEXT   THEMFS 

malleable  scrap  —  worn  out  malleable  iron  castings,  and  steel  scrap 
—  oKl  steel  rails  and  the  like. 

This  material  is  melted  up  either  in  a  cupola  or  an  air  furnace. 
The  former  is  a  vast  hollow  cylinder  in  which  the  fuel  (coke)  and  the 
metal  are  placed  in  alternate  layers.  The  iron  is  thus  melted  in  direct 
contact  with  the  fuel  —  an  arrangement  by  no  means  desirable,  as 
the  metal  invariably  absorbs  a  certain  amount  of  sulphur  from  the  coke. 

The  air  furnace  is  a  decidedly  better  arrangement.  It  comprises 
a  fire-box,  in  which  a  huge  fire  is  kept  up  with  good  gas-coal  as  fuel, 
and  a  melting  hearth  containing  the  material  to  be  melted.  The 
hearth  is  separated  from  the  fire-box  by  a  low  wall,  over  which  the 
flame  is  driven  by  a  forced  draught.  When  the  material  has  been 
melted  down  in  such  a  furnace  and  run  out  into  the  moulds,  it  is  in 
the  form  of  white  iron,  and  the  first  process  in  the  manufacture  of  the 
malleable  casting  is  completed. 

White  iron  is  almost  as  hard  and  brittle  as  glass,  but  its  nature 
is  entirely  changed  by  the  simple  heat  treatment  known  as  annealing. 
The  castings  are  tightly  packed  with  iron  oxide  in  cylindrical  pots 
of  about  tw-o  feet  in  depth  and  diameter  —  much  as  one  would  pack 
crockery  with  straw  in  a  barrel,  —  the  chief  object  being  to  keep 
them  from  warping  at  the  high  temperature  to  which  they  are  soon 
to  be  subjected.  They  are  next  placed  in  huge  ovens  and  slowly 
heated  to  about  1600°  F.,  then  gradually  allowed  to  cool  down.  They 
stay  in  the  ovens  altogether  between  four  and  five  days. 

The  physical  alteration  which  has  taken  place  in  the  properties 
of  the  metal  is  evident,  but  the  reasons  for  the  chemical  change  which 
takes  place  at  the  same  time  have  not  yet  been  definitely  discovered. 
That  the  carbon,  which  in  the  w-hite  iron  had  been  chemically  com- 
bined with  the  metal  as  iron  carbide,  is  separated  out  and  distributed 
through  the  mass  in  a  free  amorphous  form  mechanically  mixed  with 
it,  is  an  indisputable  fact.  Chemists,  however,  are  not  yet  agreed 
as  to  why  the  simple  heat  treatment  should  produce  such  a  result. 
Certain  it  is  that  the  hard,  brittle  metal  first  obtained  has  been  con- 
verted into  the  soft,  strong,  and  durable  product  described  in  the 
opening  paragraphs. 

From  this  brief  description  it  will  be  evident  that  the  manufacture 
of  malleable  iron  is  an  operation  both  complicated  and  expensive, 
owing  to  the  double  process  involved.  At  the  same  time,  however, 
it  should  be  quite  clear  that  the  superior  quality  of  the  metal  obtained 
more  than  repays  the  difficulties  of  its  manufacture. 


EXPOSITION  557 


HOW  A  ROSEBUD   UNCLOSES 

Did  you  ever  watch  a  rosebud  unclose?  If  not,  you  have  missed 
one  of  nature's  wonderful  processes.  Take  a  bud  of  the  crimson 
cochet  variety  just  as  it  begins  to  unfold.  I  warn  you  beforehand 
that  to  watch  this  transition  from  bud  to  rose  will  require  much  pa- 
tience. Nature  requires  patience  first  of  all  from  those  who  would 
learn  her  secrets.  For  three  hours  you  can  see  no  difference  in  the 
bud ;  seemingly  it  is  absolutely  idle.  You  will  perhaps  perceive,  at 
the  end  of  that  time,  that  the  bud  is  larger,  especially  in  girth,  and 
that  the  color  is  several  shades  darker.  These  changes  have  gone 
on  within  the  bud.  The  little  inner  petals  have  awakened  and  are 
sleepily  stretching  themselves,  and  by  their  quickened  life  are  send- 
ing through  the  veins  of  the  delicate  outer  petals  a  flood  of  deeper 
color.  Now,  almost  imperceptibly  at  first,  the  outer  leaves  begin 
to  unclose.  Watch  closely.  A  tremor  seems  to  run  through  the 
outermost  petal ;  then  suddenly  it  falls  a  little  from  its  fellows.  A 
second  or  two  later  another  quivers  and  falls  away,  and  then  another, 
until  finally  the  first  four  courses  are  leaning  back.  Now  the  move- 
ment begins  again  from  within.  The  little  petals  at  the  centre  begin 
to  push  out.  The  first  perfume  is  exhaled.  Those  little  petals  push 
farther  and  farther  until  the  petals  of  the  fifth  course  touch  those  of 
the  fourth ;  then  the  movement  ceases.    The  bud  is  a  full-blown  rose. 

STRAWBERRY  PICKING 

As  the  sun  rises  over  the  dewy,  glistening  field,  the  manager,  a 
short  businesslike  man  with  a  quick  eye  and  a  quicker  step,  comes 
out  of  the  shed  with  the  bosses.  To  these  bosses  he  assigns  spaces 
of  about  twenty  rows  each.  The  duty  of  this  functionary  is  to  watch 
the  pickers  in  his  territory,  keep  them  on  their  own  rows,  see  that  they 
pick  the  berries  properly  and  do  not  mash  those  on  the  edges  of  the 
rows  nor  leave  any  which  would  be  too  ripe  for  the  next  picking,  which 
occurs  the  second  day  after.  His  place  is  about  as  agreeable  as  that  of 
a  baseball  umpire.  When  the  bosses  are  allotted  their  positions,  the 
signal  is  given  and  the  pickers,  one  to  each  row,  merrily  set  to  work. 
The  cool  dew  wets  hande  and  arms  and  trousers  or  skirts  as,  on  their 
knees,  the  pickers  rapidly  turn  the  leaves  this  way  and  that,  searching 
for  the  luscious  low-lying  fruit.  The  girls,  their  hands  and  arms 
covered  with,  the  legs  of  old  stockings,  race  and  talk  with  their  neigh- 


558  .l/7'/..\7)/.V.    STUD  MIT  THEMES 

bors ;  old  men  sloop  painfully  over  Ihcir  work;  thf  women  cast 
frequent  anxious  glances  toward  the  shed  where  tlie  crying  babies 
have  been  left.  The  snap  of  the  berries  as  they  are  pulled 
from  the  vines  keeps  up  a  continuous  patter,  like  rain  falling 
on  still  water. 

Soon  the  carriers  of  the  swifter  pickers  are  filled  and  they  start 
down  between  the  rows  (no  boss  would  let  a  picker  cross  a  row)  for 
the  shed,  and  the  work  of  the  packing  department  begins.  Each 
picker,  as  he  comes  in  with  his  six  quarts  passes  the  ticket  woman, 
who  gives  him  his  ticket,  a  cardboard,  crediting  him  with  the  proper 
number  of  quarts.  If  the  boxes  are  not  full  she  "docks"  him,  that 
is,  gives  him  a  ticket  for  only  four  or  live  quarts,  as  the  case  demands. 
After  he  secures  his  ticket  he  passes  on  down  the  shed,  takes  the  boxes 
from  the  carrier  and  puts  them  on  the  bench,  refdls  with  empties  and 
returns  to  the  patch.  It  is  while  he  is  disposing  of  his  berries  that  he 
meets  the  czar  of  the  whole  business.  This  man  is  the  shed  boss.  It 
is  this  same  man  with  the  quick  eye  who  sizes  up  each  picker  and  his 
berries  as  they  pour  in  in  a  constant  stream.  Here  he  takes  out  a 
green  berry,  and  with  a  meaning  look  shows  it  to  the  picker ;  there  he 
punches  off  a  long  stem  and  tells  the  culprit  to  be  careful  in  the  future  ; 
he  fairly  jumps  on  to  the  awkw-ard  fellow  with  telltale  stains  upon  his 
knees,  and  scolds  the  girl  with  like  stains  upon  her  lips.  He  dumps 
the  boxes  of  a  suspicious  looking  tramp  to  see  that  they  are  honestly 
filled,  and  if  found  otherwise,  he  points  to  the  fence,  telling  him  to 
"git,  and  git  quick  !"     From  no  one  does  he  brook  an  answer. 

Behind  the  bench  upon  which  the  pickers  place  their  berries  stand 
the  packers,  —  women  who  take  the  quarts  from  the  bench,  place 
them  in  the  cases  and  dress  the  tops.  The  work  requires  neatness 
and  despatch,  for  with  four  hundred  pickers  working  as  fast  as  possible, 
a  short  delay  in  the  shed  would  cause  a  confusion  entirely  demoralizing. 
From  the  packers  the  cases  go  to  the  mailers,  and  from  the  mailers  to 
the  marker,  a  man  who  brands  each  case  with  its  destination  and 
sender.  The  berries,  now  ready  for  the  shipment,  are  hauled  away 
to  the  train.  Since  the  pay  depends  entirely  on  the  amount  picked, 
and  the  work  must  be  stopped  and  the  berries  shipped  by  the  middle 
of  the  afternoon,  dinner  is  a  rather  neglected  function  except  with 
the  children  about  the  shed  and  those  worn  out  with  work  and  heat. 
When  the  work  is  finished  or  the  time  is  up,  the  pickers  are  called 
in,  and  the  final  rush  for  tickets  tests  the  skill  and  patience  of  the 
woman  who  dispenses  them.     Some  have  boxes  partly  filled,  others 


EXPOSITION 


SS9 


have  picked  unripe  berries  in  their  efforts  to  make  out  even  quarts, 
and  all  want  full  pay  for  the  ragged  results. 

The  confusion  ends  at  last,  the  pickers  straggle  away,  talking  of 
their  successes  and  aspirations.  The  rosy  girl  in  the  sunbonnet  takes 
her  tickets  from  the  pocket  at  her  breast  and  compares  them  with 
the  checks  of  him  in  the  hickory  hat,  with  the  curious  result  that  the 
gallant  youth  spends  his  surplus  with  her  at  the  ice  cream  festival 
that  night ;  the  tired  woman,  with  hair  unkempt,  lugs  home  her 
crying  baby  and  does  her  household  work ;  the  young  men  repair  to 
the  store  for  a  game  of  horseshoe ;  the  tramps  to  the  same  place  for 
bread  and  coffee  ;  the  shed  hands,  bosses,  and  owner  rattle  homeward 
in  the  empty  wagons,  and  the  day's  picking  is  done. 

THE  COLLEGE  GIRL'S  VOCABULARY 

The  influence  of  environment  seems  to  leave  nothing  untouched ; 
it  sets  the  direction  not  only  of  one's  thought  and  habit  of  Hfe,  but 
determines  in  large  measure  one's  manner  of  speech.  Girls  that 
spend  several  consecutive  years  in  a  preparatory  school  and  in  college 
become  so  accustomed  to  surrounding  conditions  that  unconsciously 
they  develop  a  vocabulary  typically  different  from  that  of  other 
people.  To  a  person  who  has  been  away  from  college  for  some  time 
and  who  has  mingled  with  other  than  college  girls,  this  difference  is 
decidedly  noticeable. 

It  is  not  a  question  of  slang,  as  one  might  hastily  suggest,  but 
simply  of  the  abuse  or  misapplication  of  perfectly  good,  legitimate 
words.  In  our  language,  as  in  many  other  things  American,  the  pre- 
vailing character  is  extravagance.  Any  adjective  that  makes  the 
trifles  of  conversation  appear  interesting  or  exciting  is  not  only  per- 
missible, but  imperative.  The  most  commonplace  remark  is  splashed 
with  the  high  color  of  adventure ;  and  an  incident  is  scarcely  worth 
listening  to  if  it  is  not  "the  most  exciting  thing  you  ever  heard  in 
your  life"  —  the  last  three  words  uttered  with  an  inflection  gradually 
rising  to  a  shriek  on  "Hfe."  Naturally,  the  speaker  "nearly  died" 
under  the  stress  of  it  all. 

"Exciting"  and  "killing,"  however,  are  mild  descriptives.  To 
obtain  a  ready  listener,  events  must  be  "thrilling."  Girls  are 
"thrilled"  at  seeing  each  other  after  a  short  absence;  they  are 
''thrilled"  at  the  idea  of  a  cut,  of  a  good  mark ;  and  above  all  things, 
they  are  "thrilled"  at  a  "spread."     In  regard  to  a  tennis  appoint- 


560  APPEXDIX.    STCDENT  THEMES 

nient  1  overheard  a  sophomore  say  to  an  unsophisticated  freshman, 
•"Oh,  I  am  so  thrilled  at  the  idea  of  playing  with  you."  "I  don't 
know  why  you  should  be,"  said  the  freshman,  "for  I'm  not  at  all  a 
good  player."  "Oh,  yes,  but  don't  you  see,  if  /  win  I  should  be 
thrilled  with  triumph,  and  if  you  win  I  should  be  thrilled  with  eager- 
ness to  play  better."  To  keep  up  an  existence  of  thrills  steadily  for 
several  years  must  be  very  hard  on  the  system.  This  Ufe  surely 
requires  strong  nerves ! 

"Weird"  and  "ghastly"  both  are  words  often  dragged  from  their 
proper  surroundings  into  broad  daylight,  but,  fortunately,  not  as 
yet  with  such  frequency  and  boldness  as  the  word  "wonderful." 
This  adjective  is  perhaps  the  most  abused  in  the  college  vocabulary. 
Of  course  when  one  thinks  about  it,  everything  in  the  universe  is 
really  wonderful ;  nevertheless  some  things  are  incomparably  more 
amazing  than  others,  and  if  we  describe  mere  nothings  as  "wonderful," 
how  can  we  express  the  really  vital  somethings?  Twenty  times  a  day 
we  hear,  "Oh,  we  had  the  most  wonderful  time  at  Katherine's  last 
night!"  and  "Really,  it  was  perfectly  wonderful  ice-cream."  Sur- 
rounded by  such  intemperate  absurdities,  is  it  strange  that  any  at- 
tempt adequately  to  express  genuine  wonder  is  almost  hopeless?  It 
is  as  balBing  as  to  try  drawing  music  from  a  useless  worn-out  instru- 
ment. 

The  result  of  all  this  extravagance  is  ruin  to  our  vocabulary. 
Strong  words  are  deliberately  stolen  from  their  places  and  are  used 
to  express  trifling  nonsense.  When  we  need  these  words,  they  are  no 
longer  at  hand,  and  in  our  weakness  we  shrink  into  silence  rather  than 
venture  terms  that  have  no  meaning.  Not  only  is  our  expression 
weakened  but  our  mental  poise  is  threatened.  The  constant  use  of 
highly  exciting  language  tends  to  keep  one  in  a  state  of  nervous  agita- 
tion, of  irritabiUty.  During  the  student  period,  when  perhaps  mental 
composure  is  most  needed,  it  is  least  encouraged. 

FUZZY:     THE   IDEA  MAN 

Under  an  obscure  "Obituary"  yesterday's  paper  published  this 
notice :  — 

"Lorenzo  F.  Woodward,  42,  single,  County 
Hospital,  alcoholic  heart  failure." 

Many  of  the  deceased  man's  friends  who  glanced  ignorantly  over 
■'Lorenzo  F.  Woodward"  would  have  gazed  through  tears  at  that 


EXPOSITION  561 

announcement  had  it  read  "Fuzzy  Woodward."  And  had  it  stated 
that  Fuzzy  was  a  newspaper  man  it  would  have  been  unnecessary  to 
state  that  the  cause  of  his  death  was  alcohol ;  for  his  avocation  was 
news-gathering.  With  his  love  of  liquor,  however,  this  journalist  had 
combined  a  talent  for  "the  news  game"  that  might  have  developed 
into  a  genius  for  literature  had  not  alcohol  enfeebled  his  hand  and 
pinched  his  heart  and  gnarled  his  brain. 

Some  years  ago  there  ambled  into  the  "local  room"  of  our  daily 
newspaper  a  lean,  lank,  loose-jointed  man  with  greenish  gray  eyes. 
Several  clean-cut  wrinkles  creased  his  face,  which  bore  a  look  of  pre- 
mature age.  The  little,  old  face  started  out  from  under  a  shock  of 
yellow  curls.     The  awkward  figure  shuffled  toward  the  city  editor : 

"Need  a  man  ?     I'm  ready  for  work." 

The  editor,  after  many  procrastinations,  finally  hired  this  persistent 
applicant,  one  of  those  many  journalistic  victims  of  the  wanderlust. 
And  a  week  later  this  same  Lorenzo  Fuzzy  Woodward  had  a  regular 
staff  job  on  the  Leader. 

It  was  there  that  I  began  to  know  him.  He  seldom  mentioned 
his  early  years,  of  which  we  knew  nothing.  Evidently  he  had  been 
once  an  omnivorous  reader,  for  he  was  well  versed  in  learning  of 
various  sorts.  The  Ptolemaic  astronomical  theories,  Xenophon's 
Anabasis,  Euclid's  problems  were  topics  intimate  and  dear  to  him. 
I  remember  one  instance  in  particular  which  showed  his  knowledge 
and  luck.  It  was  his  night  "on  the  desk,"  while  the  city  editor  was 
taking  a  vacation.  The  reporter  assigned  to  write  up  a  famous 
mathematician's  lecture  on  "The  Theory  of  Functions"  had  failed 
to  return  to  the  office.  At  a  late  hour  —  after  all  hope  of  his  return 
had  fled  —  Fuzzy  began  to  fabricate  a  report  of  the  lecture.  He 
audaciously  concocted  a  resounding  effusion  and  hurried  it  out  to  the 
linotypes.  He  thought  no  more  about  it  until  two  days  later  the 
editor  received  a  letter  from  the  mathematical  lecturer  thanking  and 
congratulating  the  paper  for  the  intelligent  and  accurate  manner  in 
which  the  Leader  had  reported  his  address. 

It  was  on  account  of  such  marvellous  luck  and  skill  that  seven 
months  later  Fuzzy  became  the  Leader's  Idea  Man.  He  would 
do  anything  for  a  "good  story."  Profligate,  reckless,  unscrupulous, 
he  never  considered  the  means,  but  ever  the  end.  He  was  a  successful 
"yellow  journalist"  of  the  deepest  dye.  And  as  such  he  was  recog- 
nized by  West,  who  found  in  Fuzzy  another  keen-edged  tool  to  use 
at  his  infamous  craft  of  chiselling  out  morbid  details  upon  which  to 
build  the  framework  of  yellow  newi. 

2C 


562  Arrr.xDix.   stidext  them  is 

Some  months  after  I'u/./.y  took  up  his  duties  as  Idea  Man,  he  had 
occasion  to  display  this  talent  for  "yellow  journalism"  in  a  way  char- 
acteristic of  all  his  work.  Basing  his  story  on  some  unusual  event, 
he  had  to  fill  a  two-column  space  on  the  front  page  of  every  morning's 
paper.  Not  the  slightest  spark  of  news  had  appeared  to  kindle  his 
explosive  imagination  on  this  particular  night.  Everything  was 
dry  politics.  The  clock  ticked,  the  printers  scurried  more  and  more 
rapidly,  the  heavy  iron  "forms"  banged  louder  and  louder.  Fuzzy 
sat  down  in  the  corner  of  the  room.  Two  columns  to  fill  with  — 
what?  His  eyes  stared  a  ghastly  gray  at  the  inkstand,  which  they 
did  not  sec.  He  gnawed  his  lower  lip.  At  twenty  minutes  past 
the  hour,  the  dull  roar  of  the  huge  steel  presses,  grinding  out  the  first 
feature  section,  began  to  throb  through  the  walls.  Fuzzy  twitched. 
His  greenish  eyes  swept  from  ceiling  to  wall  —  to  floor  —  to  paper  — 
ah,  there !  He  paused  a  moment,  then  eagerly  examined  a  despatch 
from  a  country  correspondent : 

"  Jonesboro  —  William  Jenkins,  prominent  Tutt 
County  farmer,  killed  yesterday  by  kick  from 
his  old  mule,  while  ploughing  in  field,  near 
town." 

A  clumsy  account  of  details  followed.  Fuzzy  began  to  write  furiously. 
He  was  there  when  I  left  the  oflice.  The  titanic  presses  devouring 
bundles  of  paper,  screaming  from  below,  in  muilled  groans  for  "more 
copy  I"  ;  Fuzzy  scribbled  speedily  over  a  farmer's  death  notice.  All 
the  way  home  I  wondered  what  possible  interest  he  could  see  in  that 
despatch.  The  next  morning  I  looked  to  see  Fuzz3''s  space  occupied 
by  an  account  of  some  political  convention.  I  was  disappointed. 
His  space  was  filled  by  his  own  story.  It  was  his  —  all  his ;  no  one 
else  could  have  done  it.     His  headline  read :  — 

THE    OLD    FLAME    REKINDLED! 

Prominent  Tutt  County  Farmer  Killed  While  Ploughing  With  Former 

Fire  Horse  —  Animal  Ran  Wild  On  Hearing 

Distant  Alarm  Bell 

Below  that  he  had  treated  the  death  as  a  minor  incident,  despite 
the  fact  —  perhaps  —  that  he  has  mercilessly  doubled  the  grief  of 
some  bereaved  family;  but  —  what  of  it?  —  he  had  "scooped  'em 
on  a  good  story."     For  the  article  Fiozzy  received  a  personal  letter 


EXPOSITION  563 

from  Mr.  West,  with  a  check  for  twenty-five  dollars  for  "the  corre- 
spondent who  knows  how  to  nose  out  news  when  he  smells  it."  Every 
detail  of  how  the  old  blood  in  the  horse  had  called  him  back  to  the 
strenuous  life  was  depicted  in  such  a  graphic  style  as  to  bring  every 
false  fact  home  to  the  reader's  heart. 

Several  nights  after  this  episode  occurred,  Fuzzy  staggered  into 
the  office.  He  was  drunk,  disgustingly  drunk.  "Demon  Rum"  — 
as  he  jokingly  called  it  —  had  him  again.  He  wouldn't  stay  at  his 
desk  that  night.  And  the  next  morning  his  chair  was  empty  and  his 
little  two-column  space  was  profaned  by  a  pagan  hand.  Even  now, 
perhaps,  a  despondent  managing  editor  and  a  discouraged  circulation 
manager  are  halfway  hoping  for  Fuzzy's  return.  But  the  little 
obituary  notice,  brief  as  it  is,  will  tell  an  old,  old  story  to  the  friends 
who  had  warned  him  long  ago  that  some  night  he  would  be  unable 
to  survive  the  tremens.  A  martyr  to  the  nervous  strain  of  Yellow 
Journalism,  Fuzzy  has  faked  his  last  story.  And  when  yesterday  I 
read  the  unceremonious  announcement  of  his  death,  I  could  not  help 
thinking  what  a  story  he  could  have  written  about  his  own  obituary 
notice. 

THE   COLLEGE   SPRINGTIME  :   A  "NOW" 

Now  the  moment  we  wake  in  the  morning,  though  we  be  John 
Sluggards  all,  we  feel  no  other  desire  than  to  leap  up,  seeing  our  tennis- 
racquet  or  a  baseball,  or  through  the  window  a  strip  of  gold-blue  sky 
or  a  patch  of  leaves,  and  feeling  the  vicinity  of  books  and  walls  an 
oppression.  Now  we  hasten  to  get  outdoors,  and  are  impatient  of 
the  things  necessary  and  unnecessary  that  restrain  us,  objecting  on 
new  grounds  to  the  rigor  of  the  early  bath,  and  to  fresh  linen,  and 
indifferent  even  to  breakfasting  upon  fruit  and  the  news.  Now  the 
day  is  not  too  long,  nor  the  morning  too  fresh,  nor  the  noon  too  hot, 
nor  the  evening  too  languorous,  and  we  think  the  man  who  says 
merely  "Fine  Weather"  a  very  fool  for  doing  it  no  greater  justice. 
Now  we  feel  less  like  a  student  than  anything  else  in  the  world,  and 
more  like  a  young  animal,  especially  in  those  moments  when  we 
consider  going  barefoot  upon  the  turf.  Now  we  wish  to  do  a  score 
of  things  at  once,  and  end  by  doing  the  best  of  all,  which  is  nothing. 
Now  a  bookstrap  is  a  sore  abomination,  and  the  sluggish  river  of  stu- 
dents that  periodically  carries  us  down  to  classes  a  torturing  stream, 
though  it  be  full  of  back-slapping  friends ;  and  now  it  is  nettling  to 
see  that  current  of  youth  vitiated  at  entrance  to  the  campus  by  even 


564  APPEXDIX.    STUDENT  THEMES 

a  thread  of  bespectacled  instructors.  Now  ivy-covered  halls  look 
colli  and  dark,  and  their  air,  as  the  sun  strikes  into  it,  misty,  and  as 
you  breathe  it,  unwholesome. 

But  now  everything  outside  llushes  with  the  same  Hfc  that  is  in 
our  veins,  and  warms  quickly  into  activity.  Now  the  engineer's 
existence,  as  with  surveyor's  tai)c  he  paces  the  sunny  sward  beneath 
literary  windows,  seems  blithe  and  vigorous.  Now  between  classes 
you  know  not  what  to  do  and  so  do  nothing  but  wander,  like  the 
argosy  clouds  above,  for  all  desk  occupations  are  beyond  considera- 
tion. Now  the  notes  from  the  cavernous  music  school  slip  out  un- 
melodiously,  as  so  much  of  the  lugubrious  poured  upon  a  world  brim- 
ming with  the  song  of  birds.  Now  the  chorus  of  the  physical  direc- 
tor's proteges  comes  softened  from  afar.  Now  the  courts  are  a  long 
vista  of  scurrying  figures  and  of  white  spheres  flashing  over  white 
nets,  and  the  athletes  trot  past  them  in  squads  to  the  open  field,  where 
is  the  crack  of  the  struck  ball  and  the  slow  glint  of  the  faUing  discus. 
Now  in  buildings  the  entries  and  halls  seem  echoingly  wooden  and 
dusty ;  and  the  lecturer's  voice  somnolent ;  and  our  attention  wan- 
ders ;  and  the  question  in  oral  qu'3  comes  like  lightning  out  of  a  cloud 
at  your  heart ;  and  notebooks  are  as  mournful  as  their  black  covers, 
and  a  pen  as  hea\'y  as  the  burden  of  Atlas.  Now  we  all  pity  the 
teacher  for  seeming  to  take  a  real  interest  in  his  subject ;  and  we  feel 
as  angry  in  seeing  others  labor  as  if  a  spoken  reproach  were  addressed 
to  ourselves.  Now  the  haunts  of  the  studious  are  beautiful  only  at 
night,  with  the  play  of  the  sparkling  arc  lights  among  the  fairy  green. 

Now  the  student  thinks  with  dread  of  the  summer  and  the  hot 
streets  or  laborious  fields ;  and  prefers  to  let  his  mind  wander  over  the 
diversions  that  crowd  the  college  May.  Now  his  steps  are  drawn  as  if 
magnetically  to  the  scene  of  ball  practice.  Now  the  empty  bleachers 
become  black  in  the  space  of  thirty  minutes,  and  mutter  thunder  for 
an  hour,  and  disintegrate  again.  Now  the  lower  classmen,  in  fiend- 
ishly designed  regimentals,  seek  out  the  weather  forecasts  in  hope, 
and  blaspheme  among  themselves ;  but  as  their  gray  columns  wind 
over  the  southern  lawns,  or  come,  in  long  lines,  to  a  glittering  present 
before  the  Armory  as  the  band  plays,  the  spectator  forgets  their 
obvious  discomfort.  Now  the  constant  interest  in  sports  is  broken 
by  ebullitions  of  political  activity,  and  at  the  heads  of  the  campus 
walks  gather  lobbying  groups. 

Now  the  dances  are  over,  and  social  evenings  in  curtained  parlors 
or  on  shining  waxed  floors  until  midnight  seem  as  distasteful  as  they 
were  onc^  glamorous ;  but  the  swish  of  a  light  skirt  on  the  steps  or 


EXPOSITION  565 

the  sight  of  it  across  the  green  campus  is  as  irresistible  as  ever.  Now 
we  are  amazed  on  opening  our  purses  to  find  them  full  of  confectionery 
rebate  checks  and  nothing  else ;  and  stiU  we  cannot  curb  our  tastes 
for  ever-new  neckwear.  Now  in  the  early  evening  the  streets  are 
full  of  ball-playing  men ;  now  in  the  after-dinner  dusk  the  fraternity 
porches  are  massed  solidly  and  banjos  and  mandolins  are  in  requisi- 
tion, and  the  swings  are  hung  from  chains  that  they  may  bear  the 
weight  of  nine  men  at  once.  Now  songs  that  contain  allusions  to 
the  much  adjectivized  moon  are  shrilled  or  bawled  everywhere.  Now 
fellows  with  automobiles  are  most  popular,  and  appear  surrounded 
by  flocks,  while  those  without  such  friends  go  strolling  with  a  camera. 
Now  on  Sunday  afternoons  the  streets  about  the  University  are 
parading  avenues,  and  the  south  campus  is  more  and  more  variegated, 
and  the  cemetery  stones  see  wonderful  sights.  Now  the  smart- 
stepping  darkies  who  bear  pressed  clothes,  and  the  urchins  who  sell 
Posts,  and  the  wandering  Jews  who  buy  garments  multiply  and  become 
ubiquitous. 

Now  seniors  at  times  remember,  and  a  shade  passes  over  their 
brows  as  they  glance  slowly  at  the  time-old  sights ;  and  their  hands 
clench,  and  their  step  quickens  as  they  seem  to  catch  the  music  of 
conflict  and  the  call  to  arms  from  the  world  upon  which  they  are 
impinging.  Now  the  atmosphere  of  the  college,  just  fitting  about 
the  freshman,  gay  upon  the  sophomore,  and  intoxicating  in  the  breast 
of  the  junior,  is  passing  from  them.  Yet  to  senior  and  all  alike,  the 
world  and  the  fulness  thereof  is  brightness.  Now  —  Now  —  Now  — 
it  is  spring ! 

THE  FEAR  OF  PEW 

Why  is  it  that  I  dread  and  hate  David  Pew  ?  The  very  name  is 
ghastly.  Wickedness,  craftiness,  bloodiness,  power,  and  the  devil 
himself  seem  bound  up  in  it.  I  cannot  think  of  him  without  a  shud- 
der and  whenever  I  recall  his  "vice-hke  grip"  and  the  "tap-tap-tap- 
ping of  his  stick,"  the  blood  rushes  in  Httle  whirls  through  my  breast. 

Stevenson  doubles  the  horridness  and  supernaturalncss  of  Pew 
by  making  him  blind.  Blindness  itself  carries  a  tragic,  fearsome  at- 
mosphere with  it.  The  blind  are  both  pitied  and  held  in  awe,  because 
we  imagine  that  they  live  in  a  world  different  from  ours,  a  world  of 
black,  heavy  shadows  and  dark,  whirling  winds,  and  that  they  are, 
to  some  extent,  of  this  world  of  phantoms.  It  is  uncanny  to  see  a 
blind  man  do  a  seeing  man's  work  and   ghostlike   when  he   hears 


566  ArriM)i.\.   ^n  i)i:.\T  Tin:M/is 

sounil  to  which  \vc  arc  deaf.  To  know  thai  when  a  blind  man  touches 
us  a  stream  of  information,  which  seems  out  of  all  [)roi)ortion.  rushes 
up  to  his  brain,  to  know  that  he  marks  every  tremor  and  inflection 
of  our  tones  is  to  have  for  him  a  respect  tinged  with  fear.  But  invest 
a  hateful  villain  with  these  unusual  powers,  as  Stevenson  has  invested 
David  Pew  with  them,  and  we  have  an  infernal  si)irit  whose  very 
image  makes  the  feverish  sweat  burst  out  at  the  temples. 

USE  OF  DI.\LOGUE  IN  "THE  YOUNG  MAN  WITH  THE 
CRE.UI  TARTS" 

Ste\^n'SON'  makes  much  use  of  dialogue  in  almost  all  of  his  stories. 
In  "The  Young  Man  with  the  Cream  Tarts''  he  lives  up  in  every 
way  to  his  established  custom.  There  is  much  conversation,  but  it 
is  all  pertinent,  all  useful.  He  does  not  bring  in  conversation  because 
he  prefers  that  method  of  writing,  or  because  he  feels  that  the  story 
needs  some  conversation  somewhere,  but  because  it  is  natural.  None 
of  the  dialogue  —  a  bold  statement  to  make  concerning  such  a  long 
story  —  is  superfluous  or  irrelevant.  He  makes  the  dialogue  between 
Mr.  Malthius  and  Colonel  Geraldine  the  medium  through  which  the 
methods  of  the  Suicide  Club  are  explained.  The  Young  Man  with 
the  Cream  Tarts  tells  the  story  of  his  own  financial  excesses  in 
a  few  natural  words,  which  give  a  very  much  better  sense  of  reahsm 
to  the  story  than  if  the  facts  were  simply  written  down  by  the  author. 
Almost  the  entire  development  of  the  plot  rests  in  the  dialogue,  yet 
the  plot  moves  quickly  and  without  hesitation. 

It  is  hard  to  say  whether  Stevenson's  dialogue  is  natural  in  the 
sense  that  it  is  the  dialogue  of  real  flcsh-and-blood  people.  To  me 
there  is  that  same  inherent  beauty  and  nobility  of  style  in  Stevenson 
that  there  is  in  Scott,  a  beauty  and  nobility  which  cannot  alike  be 
given  to  Prince  Florizcl  and  the  President  of  the  Suicide  Club.  With- 
out a  question  the  conversation  of  the  Prince  is  entirely  in  character. 
The  sentences  are  noble  and  contain  that  certain  sense  of  quiet  royally 
and  power  which  it  is  so  difficult  to  command.  Prince  Florizel's 
character  is  told  completely  by  his  dialogue.  We  know,  admire,  love, 
and  respect  him  immediately.  But  the  dialogue  of  Mr.  Malthius  and 
the  President  —  is  it  not  a  bit  too  fine,  too  noble,  too  carefully  conceived  ? 
Whatever  may  be  the  effect  of  these  baser  characters,  it  is  entirely 
due  to  Stevenson's  wonderful  descriptions  (how  skilful  they  are  !) 
rather  than  to  their  conversations.  Little  of  the  character  is  unfolded 
in  the  style  and  structure,  though,  of  course,  much  in  the  literal  mean- 


EXPOSITION  567 

ing  of  the  sentence.  However,  I  still  maintain  that  we  remember  the 
President  not  from  any  especial  points  in  his  conversation,  but  because 
of  "his  mouth,  which  embraced  a  large  cigar,  which  he  constantly 
kept  screwing  round  and  round  and  from  side  to  side,"  and  because 
of  many  like  pictorial  descriptions.  It  is  so  with  Mr.  Malthius,  and 
so  on  down  the  list,  with  the  exception  of  the  Prince.  Yet  I  would 
rather  have  the  story  as  it  is  than  lose  any  of  these  superb  sentences 
to  gain  what  after  all  would  prove  but  a  trifling  benefit. 

JOHN   MASEFIELD 

During  the  past  dozen  years  John  Masefield  has  been  supple- 
menting an  earlier  career  in  maritime  vagabondia  by  an  intensely 
busy  and  varied  literary  life.  He  has  written  review  upon  review, 
edited  volume  upon  volume ;  has  gone  back  with  characteristic  zest 
to  live  in  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  century  England,  that  land  of 
salt  sea  gods  and  rich  discoveries ;  has  turned  out  dashing  prose 
tales  of  the  sea ;  has  written  epigrammatically  upon  Shakespeare ; 
and  has  made  four  books  of  poetry.  Always  he  has  written  too 
swiftly.  Like  his  poetic  contemporaries  he  has  composed  with  a  silly 
rapidity  that  has  not  been  gauged  "for  all  time,"  and  strikes  you 
best  at  its  first  reading.  He  rarely  is  eminently  quotable ;  he  has 
attended  less  to  the  single  line  or  to  the  single  stanza  than  to  the 
breathing  spirit,  the  force  and  motion  and  necessity  of  the  theme  as  a 
whole.  But  for  all  that  he  emerges  from  his  activity  the  most  suc- 
cessful, as  the  North  American  Review  would  have  it,  of  all  English 
poets  since  Stephen  Phillips  in  his  prime. 

It  is  to  be  feared  that  a  great  proportion  of  this  success  has  to  be 
inferred  from  the  popular  exclamations  over  the  least  unobjectionable 
traits  in  Masefield's  poetry.  Thirteen  years  ago  Stopford  A.  Brooke 
wrote  this :  — 

"What  we  want  for  the  sake  of  a  noble  literature,  and  especially 
for  the  sake  of  a  lasting  school  of  poetry,  is  a  great  social  conception, 
carrying  with  it  strong  and  enduring  emotions,  appealing  to  the  uni- 
versal heart  of  man  and  Avoman." 

And  the  fact  is  inescapable  that  to-day,  when  social  needs  are  re- 
ceiving warmer  attention  than  in  any  previous  period  of  civiHzation, 
we  are  seeing  the  best  poetry  brought  close  to  common  life,  to  the 
common  individual.  There  is  no  way  out  of  understanding  that  a 
new  note  of  mysticism  is  hghting  up  our  philosophy  and  our  litera- 
ture —  a  mysticism  that  seeks  to  make  its  wonted  leap  away  from 


568  APPFSDIX.    STUDENT  THEMES 

reason  and  experiment,  and  establish  a  socialistic,  rapt  communion 
hctwifn  eavh  man  and  all  his  fellow-men.  It  is  true  that  poetry  has 
been  relieved  of  its  shrinking,  subjective,  aesthetic  character,  and  is 
no  longer  of  mere  back-water  beauty.  And  it  is  Masciield  himself 
who  has  done  much  to  render  English  poetic  language  bold  and  modern 
and  free  from  false  dignity  or  languorous  case.  So  far  Mr.  Brooke's 
idea  has  been  borne  out. 

But  Mr.  Brooke  was  pleading  for  none  of  the  "red  meat,"  none 
of  the  "'rolling  in  the  mud,"  none  of  the  unbalanced  frenzy  that  Mr. 
Mascfield  in  his  notorious  long  narrative  poems  has  seemed  to  deem 
essential  to  this  social  conception.  lie  did  not  propose  that  the  public 
should  hail  with  awe  such  a  declaration  of  poetic  duty  as  this :  — 

Others  may  sing  of  the  wine  and  the  wealth  and  the  mirth, 

The  portly  presence  of  potentates  goodly  in  girth ;  — 

Mine  be  the  dirt  and  the  dross,  the  dust  and  scum  of  the  earth  I 

Theirs  be  the  music,  the  color,  the  glory,  the  gold ; 

Mine  be  a  handful  of  ashes,  a  mouthful  of  mould. 

Of  the  maimed,  of  the  halt  and  the  blind  in  the  rain  and  the  cold  — 

Of  these  shall  my  songs  be  fashioned,  my  tales  be  told.     Amen. 

Or  such  a  defence  of  sottishness  as  this  :  — 

1  heard  a  drunken  fiddler,  in  Billy  Lee's  saloon, 
I  brooked  an  empty  belly  with  thinking  of  the  tune : 
I  swung  the  doors  disgusted  as  drunkards  rose  to  dance, 
And  now  1  know  the  music  was  life  and  life's  romance. 

Or  such  a  low-browed  pugilist  reminiscence  as  this :  — 

Time  I  There  w-as  Bill  as  grim  as  death, 
He  rushed,  I  clinched,  to  get  more  breath, 
And  breath  I  got,  though  Billy  bats 
Some  stinging  short-arms  in  my  slats. 
And  when  we  broke,  as  I  foresaw, 
He  swung  his  right  in  for  the  jaw. 
I  stopped  it  on  my  shoulder  bone, 
And  at  the  shock  I  heard  Bill  groan  — 
A  little  groan  or  moan  or  grunt 
As  though  I'd  hit  his  wind  a  bunt. 


EXPOSITION  569 

We  cannot  follow  the  poet  here,  where  the  calmness  and  the  bal- 
ance of  a  great  philosophy  are  wanting.  Masefield  has  spoken  too 
often  of  "red  blood,"  has  appealed  too  often  to  the  primitive,  has 
cautioned  us  too  often  not  to  forget  that  we  are  animals.  If  this 
were  all  that  he  had  done,  it  would  be  a  simple  matter  to  class  him 
with  the  decadents.  But  this  is  not  his  representative  work.  He 
has  done  better. 

Mr.  Masefield  is  important,  probably  the  most  important  of  living 
English  poets,  because  of  the  new  beauty  that  he  feels.  Throughout 
the  nineteenth  century,  beauty  in  poetry  meant  something  over- 
refined,  something  seeking  retreat,  something  too  finely  tinted  for 
the  strong  sunlight,  something  held  at  arm's  length  upon  an  appro- 
priate background.  Masefield's  beauty  is  of  a  different  order.  It 
leaps  up  at  him  and  envelops  him ;  it  bears  down  on  him  and 
intoxicates  him ;  it  is  ever  present  and  tangible.  It  is  an  exulta- 
tion he  is  never  without  feeling.  True,  it  has  little  of  the  spiritual 
in  it,  is  oftenest  physical;  in  his  description  he  reports  rather 
than  interprets.  But  he  is  the  prophet  and  not  the  Jehovah  of 
this  beauty. 

The  beauty  of  the  sea  holds  most  for  our  poet.  The  waves,  ships 
at  anchor  and  ships  full-sailed,  sailors  rude  and  sailors  tender,  every 
sentiment  known  upon  the  waters  —  all  these  he  worships  unre- 
servedly. "The  ships,"  he  says,  "made  me."  In  one  of  his  prose 
tales  he  reveals  this  fascination  in  a  peculiarly  penetrating  fashion. 

"The  ship  was  like  a  thing  carved  out  of  pearl.  The  sailors,  as 
they  lay  sleeping  in  the  shadows,  were  Hke  august  things  of  bronze. 
And  the  skies  seemed  so  near  me,  I  felt  as  though  we  were  sailing 
under  a  roof  of  dim  branches  that  bore  the  moon  and  the  stars  like 
shining  fruits.  Gradually,  however,  the  peace  in  my  heart  gave  way 
to  an  eating  melancholy,  and  I  felt  a  sadness,  such  as  has  come  to  me 
but  twice  in  my  life.  With  the  sadness  there  came  a  horror  of  the 
water  and  the  skies,  till  my  presence  in  that  ship,  under  the  ghastly 
corpse-light  of  the  moon,  among  that  sea,  was  a  terror  to  me  past 
power  of  words  to  tell.  I  went  to  the  ship's  rail,  and  shut  my  eyes 
for  a  moment,  and  then  opened  them  to  look  down  at  the  water 
rushing  past.  I  had  shut  my  eyes  upon  the  sea,  but  when  I  opened 
them  I  looked  upon  the  forms  of  the  sea  spirits.  The  water  was 
indeed  there,  hurrying  aft  as  the  ship  cut  through ;  but  in  -the  bright 
foam  far  about  the  ship  I  saw  multitudes  of  beautiful,  inviting  faces 
that  had  an  eagerness  and  a  swiftness  in  them  unlike  the  speed  or 


570  APrrxPfx.   stcdext  tiif.mes 

thf  intensity  of  human  beings.  I  remember  that  I  had  never  seen 
anything  of  such  i>assit)nate  beauty  as  those  faces,  and  as  I  looked 
at  them  my  melancholy  fell  away  like  a  rag." 

Running  water  sounils  always  musically  in  his  ears :    - 

Spanish  waters,  Spanish  waters,  you  are  ringing  in  my  ears, 
Like  a  slow  sweet  piece  of  music  from  the  gray  forgotten  years; 
Telling  tales,  and  beating  tunes,  and  bringing  weary  thoughts  to  me 
Of  tho  sandy  beach  at  Muertos,  where  I  would  that  I  could  be. 

There  is  the  beauty  of  leaping  vigor,  of  restless  enthusiasm,  in  his 
best  and  most  characteristic  lines.  They  run  on  swiftly  and  nimbly, 
carrj'ing  us  on  by  the  mere  force  of  their  spirit.  The  man  himself 
loves  motion  and  abandonment :  — 

It  is  good  to  be  out  on  the  road,  and  going  one  knows  not  where, 
f  Toing  through  meadow  and  village,  one  knows  not  whither  nor  why ; 

Through  the  gray  light  drift  of  the  dust,  in  the  keen  cool  rush  of  the 

air. 
Under  the  llying  white  clouds,  and  the  broad  blue  lift  of  the  sky ; 

And  to  halt  at  the  chattering  brook,  in  the  tall  green  fern  at  the 

brink 
WTiere  the  harebell  grows,  and  the  gorse,  and  the  fox-gloves  purple 

and  white ; 

WTiere  the  shy-eyed  delicate  deer  troop  down  to  the  pools  to  drink, 
When  the  stars  are  mellow  and  large  at  the  coming  on  of  the  night. 

O  I  to  feel  the  warmth  of  the  rain,  and  the  homely  smell  of  the  earth, 
Is  a  tune  for  the  blood  to  jig  to,  a  joy  past  power  of  words ; 
And  the  blessed  green  comely  meadows  seem  all  aripple  with  mirth 
At  the  lilt  of  the  shifting  feet,  and  the  dear  wild  cry  of  the  birds. 

He  slashes  his  way  through  such  a  passage  as  that  matchless  de- 
scription of  the  rounding  of  Cape  Horn  in  "Dauber,"  delighting  in 
the  rush  of  the  seas,  dipping  his  head  in  the  stormy  beauty  of  it  all. 
His  best  work  has  been  done  in  that  description ;  especially  in  the 
following  stanza :  — 


EXPOSITION  571 

All  through  the  windless  night  the  clipper  rolled 

In  a  great  swell  with  oily  gradual  heaves 

Which  rolled  her  down  until  her  time-bells  tolled 

Clang,  and  the  weltering  water  moaned  like  beeves. 

The  thundering  rattle  of  slatting  shook  the  sheaves, 

Startles  of  water  made  the  swing  ports  gush. 

The  sea  was  moaning  and  sighing  and  saying  "Hush  !" 

This  could  well  be  a  touchstone  of  poetry  along  with  the  King's 
soliloquy  in  Henry  IV,  part  II. 

Masefield  knows  no  restraint ;  holds  no  power  in  reserve ;  writes 
always  at  white  heat.  For  this  reason  —  for  his  haste  and  his  diffuse- 
ness  —  he  cannot  for  the  present  be  called  better  than  a  minor  poet. 
Only  when  his  art  is  less  headlong ;  only  when  that  high  strung, 
luxuriant  sympathy  for  common  humanity  is  less  maudlin  and  more 
universal  in  the  appeal  of  its  philosophy ;  only  then  will  Masefield 
be  more  than  a  passing  flame. 

MR.   ROOSEVELT  IN  PALESTINE 

When  Mr.  Roosevelt  popularized  the  phrase,  "the  psychological 
moment,"  it  became  at  once  evident  that  he,  above  all  others,  real- 
ized the  apt  significance  of  the  expression.  Mr.  Roosevelt's  psycho- 
logical moments  have  been  many.  He  seems  to  appear  or  disappear, 
invent,  discover,  create,  at  times  and  places,  in  manner  and  degree, 
anything  he  wishes  which  will  cause  him  to  occupy  a  prominent  place 
on  the  public  horizon.  Life  has  never  been  for  him  a  humdrum  exist- 
ence. He  makes  it  spicy,  attractive,  of  tremendous  interest  and 
importance  both  to  himself  and  to  those  that  watch  him. 

Out  in  Palestine  natives  still  remember  him  as  an  unusual  speci- 
men of  boyhood.  He  was  too  frail  to  accompany  his  father  and 
mother  through  the  country  by  carriage.  He  was  not  too  frail, 
however,  as  soon  as  their  respective  backs  were  turned  upon  his 
safe,  sheltered,  and  refined  housing  with  a  professor's  family  in  Beirut 
to  appropriate  the  native  cook's  red  goatskin  slippers  and  an  obsti- 
nate little  donkey  and  ride  madly  from  morning  until  night  over  the 
sands  of  the  long  stretch  of  beach.  He  conquered  the  donkey  and 
proved  his  ability  to  ride  in  Palestine.  He  managed  to  interest  him- 
self in  everything  he  saw  and  left  the  mark  of  his  personality  on  tea- 
party  and  street  fight  alike.  There  are  those  who  still  remember 
his  stopping  things  just  that  he  might  see  how  to  start  them  up  again. 


572  irrr.xnrx.   stldext  themes 

The  iH>lter  ;U  his  wheel,  the  spinner  at  the  loom,  the  weaver  of  the 
carpet,  the  teller  of  the  talc  in  the  coffee-house  —  none  escaped. 
Only  after  the  jar  was  shaped,  the  bit  of  silk  woven,  the  pattern  in 
the  carpet  made  clear,  and  the  Arab  story  that  had  interested  him 
because  of  the  laugh  it  had  created  had  been  translated,  was  he 
content. 

This  fillinji  of  his  life  with  specific  knowledge  of  things  as  they  are 
has  helped  him  to  a  dearer  interpretation  of  possibilities,  to  attach 
signiticance  to  trivial  details,  to  see  everything  and  every  act  with  an 
appraising  eye.  His  following  a  trail  to  find  at  the  end  an  undis- 
covered river  is  only  another  example  of  his  boyhood's  ambition  to 
know  the  why  of  everything,  that  he  might  taste  the  joy  of  the  con- 
queror—  and  that  the  world  might  taste  it  with  him. 

OUR  MILITARY   UNPREPAREDNESS 

If  the  Mexican  situation  has  done  nothing  more,  it  has.  at  least, 
shown  our  militar>'  weakness  and  opened  our  eyes  to  the  necessity 
of  increasing  our  military  forces.  There  is  little  probability  that 
this  Mexican  fracas  will  develop  into  a  great  war,  but  nevertheless 
military  commanders  are  in  a  quandary  as  to  what  they  would  do  if 
war  should  be  declared. 

They  have  under  their  command  only  18,000  trained  United  States 
army  men.  As  at  least  250,000  volunteers  would  be  needed  in  any 
struggle  large  enough  to  be  called  a  war,  we  can  to  some  extent  re- 
alize the  great  problem  of  drilling  these  men  in  the  simple  military 
movements  in  a  short  space  of  lime.  Undrilled  men  arc  almost  worth- 
less in  a  battle  field.  In  substance,  we  do  not  have  a  sufficient  stand- 
ing army  to  defend  ourselves  or  uphold  the  dignity  and  honor  of  the 
United  States.  Increasing  the  state  militia  or  National  Guards 
would  alleviate  conditions. 

\s  long  as  there  are  separate  nations,  so  long  will  there  be  need  of 
force,  need  of  armies  to  enforce  peace.  David  Starr  Jordan,  in 
advocating  disarmament,  has  made  the  assumption  that  the  spirit  of 
struggle  and  warfare  has  disappeared  in  this  twentieth  century. 
.\lthough  tempered  by  the  study  of  the  humanistic  and  sociological 
sides  of  life,  this  spirit  of  war  is  yet  burning  in  the  breasts  of  men 
to-day.  Therefore,  to  reiterate,  it  is  our  duty  as  one  of  the  foremost 
nations  of  the  world  to  represent  a  bulwark  of  military  strength  to 
enforce  peace,  especially  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic. 


EXPOSITION 


THE  UNDERWOOD   TARIFF  BILL 


573 


The  passage  of  the  Underwood  tariff  marks  the  beginning  of  a  new 
freedom  in  trade  and  industry.  If  it  be  the  first  step  in  a  continuous 
policy  that  Vv-ill  ultimately  unfetter,  our  economic  processes,  the  year 
1913  will  rank  in  our  history  as  1846  ranks  in  the  history  of  England. 
In  that  year  began  the  series  of  tarifif  reductions  which  finally  made 
England  a  free-trade  country  and  gave  it  its  lead  in  the  world's  com- 
merce. 

In  politics  and  economics  this  bill  is  perhaps  the  greatest  change 
we  have  made,  and  the  quiet  with  which  it  is  accepted,  when  compared 
with  the  way  such  fundamental  changes  are  met  in  Europe,  is  good 
evidence  of  the  inherent  political  ability  of  the  American  people. 
The  ability  to  change  politics  not  only  peaceably  but  with  confidence 
is  one  of  the  great  tests  of  a  nation's  stability. 

OF  THE  IMPORTANCE  ATTACHED  TO  ATHLETIC 
SPORTS 

Among  the  deplorable  failings  of  the  present  day,  none  is  more 
astonishing  than  the  rapidly  increasing  tendency  to  set  hopelessly 
false  values  upon  the  institutions  and  customs  peculiar  to  the  period. 
The  absurd  importance  attached  to  athletic  sports  forms  one  of  the 
most  striking  instances  of  this  modern  hallucination. 

The  original  object  of  athletic  sports,  and  the  only  excuse  for  their 
existence  to-day,  is  found  in  the  undoubted  necessity  for  supplement- 
ing mental  exertion  with  physical  exercise.  At  the  present  time, 
however,  the  intellect  seems  to  be  generally  subordinated  to  physical 
strength.  There  is  an  alarmingly  large  number  of  men  who  conde- 
scend to  recognize  intellect  only  as  a  useful  assistant  in  bodily  recrea- 
tion —  as  a  means  of  devising  clever  plays  in  foot-ball  and  base-ball, 
or  as  a  profitable  adjunct  to  muscular  proficiency  in  the  running  of 
races. 

The  athlete,  again,  is  the  recipient  of  a  lamentable  amount  of  popu- 
lar favor.  The  individuals  of  a  college  athletic  team  are  known  by 
';ight  to  almost  every  member  of  the  undergraduate  body.  Yet 
how  many  of  the  most  brilliant  scholars  in  the  institution  are  simi- 
larly recognized  ?  The  result  is  that  athletic  distinction  has  become 
infinitely  more  highly  prized  than  scholastic  distinction  —  a  state  of 
afTairs  that  would  be  laughable  were  it  not  so  woefully  serious. 


574 


ArrixD/w   sTcnr.xT  themes 


\';ist  sums  of  monov  thai  might  do  inlinitc  good  arc  annually  stjuan- 
dorod  on  "spectacular  sport"  — a  phrase,  by  the  way,  in  its  essence 
amusingly  paradoxical.  Rome  in  her  most  decadent  days  cannot 
have  lavished  more  on  trivial  amusement  than  is  now  spent  on  the 
unedifying  exhibitions  daily  thronged  by  the  patrons  of  so-called 
sport.  Intellectual  refinement  is  everywhere  neglected,  and  sport 
cultivated  with  idolatrous  reverence.  By  the  average  citizen  of  the 
United  Stales,  the  name  Wagner  is  instantly  associated  with  the 
person  of  a  popular  baseball  player.  Another  man,  of  widely  ditTer- 
ent  fame,  may  have  borne  the  name  before,  but  the  thoughts  of  the' 
modern  concern  themselves  with  the  field  of  sport  alone. 

Such  is  the  state  of  affairs  to-day;  very  similar  was  it  at  Rome 
fifteen  centuries  ago.  The  fall  of  Rome  is  a  matter  of  history.  — 
What  will  be  the  result  here  ? 


II.     ARGUMENT 

BRIEF 

Should  the  Nation  allow  San  Francisco  to  use  the  Hetch-Hetchy 
Valley  as  a  Municipal  Reservoir  ? 

In'troduction 

I.   The  question  as  to  whether  San  Francisco  should  be  allowed  to 
utilize  the  Hetch-Hetchy  valley  as  a  reservoir  has  aroused  the 
interest  of  the  whole  nation. 
II.   The  following  explanation  will  facilitate  the  intelligent  under- 
standing of  the  facts  and  the  developments  to  date  :  — 
A.   The  area  of  the  Hetch-Hetchy  valley  is  five  hundred  square 
miles,  or  one-half   that  of  the  Yosemite  National  Park 
which  embraces  it. 

1.  The  Yosemite  National  Park  was  established  under  an 

act  of  1890  intended  to  preserve  and  retain  the 
"natural  curiosities  and  wonders  of  the  park  in  their 
natural  conditions." 

2.  San  Francisco  gained,  under  an  act  of  1 901,  which  allows 

grants  of  revocable  rights  of  way  "which  are  not  in- 
compatible with  public  interest,"  a  revocable  permit 
to  utilize  the  Hetch-Hetchy. 


ARGUMENT  575 

B.  The  following  description  of  the  National  Park  aims  to  pre- 

sent its  particular  features  :  — 

1.  The  Hetch-Hetchy  and  the  Yosemite  valleys  are  both 

four  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  occupy  the  same 
relative  position  on  the  flank  of  the  Sierras,  and  have 
similar  waterfalls,  sculpture,  and  vegetation. 

2.  As  the  Merced    passes  from  the  Sierras    through    the 

Yosemite,  so  flows  the  Tuolomne  River  through 
canons  of  unsurpassed  scenic  beauty,  and  on  through 
the  Hetch-Hetchy. 

3.  The  Hetch-Hetchy  lies  at  a  distance  of  eighteen  miles 

from  the  Yosemite  and  is  now  easily  accessible  by 
trail  and  wagon-road  from  the  Big  Oak  Flat  Road  at 
Sequoia. 

C.  The  official  action  to  date  as  regards  the  flooding  of  the 

Hetch-Hetchy  is  as  follows  :  — - 

1.  On  February  15,  1901,  an  act  of  Congress  authorized 

revocable  permits  to  power  plants,  water-supply 
works,  pole  lines,  conduits,  etc.,  when  not  deemed 
"incompatible  with  the  public  interest." 

2.  On  October  15,  1901,  Mayor  Phelan  filed  a  request  for 

reservoir  rights  in  Yosemite  Park  under  the  above 
act. 

3.  On  Janviary  20,  1903,  Secretary  Hitchcock  of  the  Depart- 

ment of  the  Interior  denied  the  petition  on  the  ground 
that  the  grant  would  be  incompatible  with  the  public 
interest. 

4.  On  a  rehearing  of  the  petition,  December  22,  1903,  it 

was  again  rejected  by  Secretary  Hitchcock. 
.  5.  An  act  enabling  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior  to  declare 
that  the  grant  was  compatible  with  the  public  interest 
was  introduced  into  Congress  at  this  juncture,  but 
received  no  standing. 
6.  On  October  28,  1905,  the  Assistant  Attorney-General  of 
the  United  States  rendered  an  opinion  to  the  President 
that  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior  had  full  discretionary 
power  to  grant  these  rights  under  the  act  of  February 
15,  1901.  This  was  in  reply  to  the  city's  petiti6n  to 
the  President  to  interfere  in  its  behalf.  Mr.  Hitch- 
cock stood  firmly  upon  the  ground  that  the  grant 


576  .irfi:.\D/.\.   student  themes 

woulil  1)0  inconipalihlo  with  the  puhlir  interest,  and 
was  supported  by  the  Secretary  of  Commerce  and 
Labor.  Victor  H.  Metcalf,  a  Californian. 

7.  When  Mr.  Garlicld  became  Secretary  of  the  Interior 

the  city  asked  to  have  the  case  reopened.  At  Presi- 
dent Roosevelt's  desire  Secretary  Garfield  held  a 
hearing  in  San  Francisco  on  July  24,  1Q07. 

8.  On  May  11,  iqoS,  Secretary  (iarfield  granted  flowage 

rights  to  San  Francisco  in  the  Lake  Eleanor  basin  and 
the  Hctch-Hetchy,  the  latter  to  be  used  only  after  the 
former  had  been  fully  utilized  and  found  insuflicient. 

9.  In  December.  190S,  San  Francisco  introduced  a  bill  in 

Congress  to  authorize  the  Secretary  of  the  Interior  to 
exchange  the  remaining  public  lands  in  the  Hetch- 
Hetchy  valley,  giving  fee  simple  title  for  certain 
other  private  claims  belonging  to  the  city  but  lying 
in  other  parts  of  the  park  and  in  the  adjoining  Stan- 
islaus National  Park.  This  would  enable  the  city 
to  proceed  at  once  with  the  Hctch-Hetchy  work,  re- 
gardless of  the  restriction  in  the  grant  that  Lake 
Eleanor  must  be  used  lirst. 

10.  In  December,  1908.  and  in  January,  1909,  the  House  Com- 

mittee on  Public  Lands  held  hearings  on  the  above 
bill  but  refused  to  report  it  to  the  House. 

11.  On  February  10,  1910,  Secretary  of  the  Interior  Ballinger 

ordered  San  Francisco  to  show  cause  why  he  should 
not  eliminate  the  Hetch-Hetchy  from  the  Garfield 
grant.  This  order  was  based  on  a  report  by  the 
Director  of  the  United  States  Geological  Survey,  made 
upon  the  order  of  Secretary'  Ballinger  after  the  latter 
had  personally  visited  Hctch-Hetchy  in  August,  1909. 
The  report  of  the  Director  was  based  upon  the  exam- 
ination by  two  engineers  of  the  reclamation  survey, 
who  reported  that  Lake  Eleanor  was  suflficient  for 
the  present  and  prospective  needs  of  the  city.  This 
investigation  had  been  ordered  by  Secretary  Ballinger 
in  response  to  a  petition  by  the  opponents  of  the 
Hetch-Hetchy  scheme. 

12.  On  May  25,  1910,  the  City  appeared  in  Washington  to 

show  cause  as  directed.    The  case  was  heard  by  Secrc 


ARGUMENT  577 

tary  Ballinger  and  a  board  of  army  engineers  appointed 
by  the  President  at  the  request  of  Secretary  BaUinger. 
The  hearing  adjourned  to  June  i,  191 1,  on  which  date 
the  city  and  army  engineers  were  to  report  on  other 
available  sources  of  supply  for  the  city. 

1$.  In  the  spring  of  191 1  agents  of  the  city  sounded  mem- 
bers of  Congress  to  see  if  the  old  land-trading  bill  of 
1908  had  a  chance  to  pass  at  the  special  session  of 
Congress  then  sitting.  Discouraged  in  this,  they 
applied  to  Secretary  Ballinger  for  an  extension  of  the 
date  on  which  the  report  was  to  be  returned  from 
June  I,  191 1,  to  June  i,  191 2.  An  extension  of  six 
months  was  granted  to  December  i,  191 1.  The 
army  engineers  were  then  ready  to  report. 

14.  In  November,  191 1,  the  city  applied  for  another  exten- 
sion of  time,  and  it  was  granted  till  March  i,  191 2. 

III.  It  is  agreed  that  San  Francisco  needs  a  larger  water  supply. 

IV.  The  conflicting  arguments  in  the  case  are  as  follows :  — 

A.  Those  in  favor  of  utilizing  the  Hetch-Hetchy  as  a  reservoir 

believe 

1.  That  the  present  water  supply  is  impure. 

2.  That  the  Hetch-Hetchy  is  the  cheapest  and  only  avail- 

able source  of  supply. 

3.  That   the   hydro-electric   power  derived   from  it  would 

relieve  taxes  now  imposed  for  the  lighting  of  streets 
and  public  buildings. 

4.  That  the  act  of  1901,  which  allows  grants  of  revocable 

rights  of  way  "which  are  not  incompatible  with  the 
pubHc  interest"  is  meant  to  provide  for  such  needs  as 
that  of  San  Francisco  for  a  water  supply. 

B.  Those  opposed   to  allowing  San   Francisco  to   utilize  the 

Hetch-Hetchy  valley  believe 

1.  That  the  present  supply  is  potable. 

2.  That  there  are  other  sources,  as  easily  available  for  a 

supply  as  Hetch-Hetchy. 

3.  That  it  would  materially  injure  the  natural  beauty  of 

the  valley. 

4.  That  the  act  of  1901  was  intended  for  the  preservation 

of  the  natural  curiosities  and  wonders  in  their  natural 
condition. 


578  A pp i:\nix.   stidf.m  themes 

$.  That  San  Francisco  has  no  legal  or  moral  right  to  the  use 
of  a  tract  of  land  set  aside  for  the  benefit  of  the  whole 
country. 
V.   From  these  conllicling  opinions  it  appears  Ihat  the  points  to  be 
determined  are : 

A .  Is  I  he  present  supply  unpotable  ? 

B.  Is  the  Hetch-Hetchy  valley  the  only  available  source  of 

water  for  San  Francisco  ? 

C.  Would  the  natural  beauty  of  the  Iletch-Iiclchy  be  injured 

by  its  being  converted  into  a  lake  ? 

D.  Has  San  Francisco  a  legal  or  a  moral  right  to  utilize  the 

Hetch-Hetchy  as  a  reservoir  ? 

BRIEF   PROPER 

The  Nation  should  not  allow  San  Francisco  to  use  the  Hetch-Hetchy 
valley  as  a  municipal  reservoir,  for 
1.   The  present  supply  is  potable,  for 

A.   It  has  been  analyzed  by  many  experts  of  the  best  repute 
and  found  pure. 
II.   The  Hetch-Hetchy  valley  is  not  the  only  source  of  water  avail- 
able, for 

A.  A  study  of  the  map  of  California  makes  it  seem  doulitful 

whether  there  is  any  other  city  in  the  world  of  the  size 
of  San  Francisco  which  has  so  many  available  water  sup- 
phes,  for 

1.  San  Francisco  is  situated  near  the  confluence  of  the  two 

great  streams  of  the  state,  the  Sacramento  and  the 
San  Joaquin. 

2.  Several  large  rivers  (among  them  the  Tuolomne),  any 

one  of  which  will  furnish  ample  w-ater  for  the  city,  flow 
dov/n  the  Sierras  west  toward  San  Francisco. 

3.  North  and  south  of  San  Francisco,  along  the  coast,  many 

streams  waste  their  waters  in  the  ocean. 

B.  Eminent  engineers  indicate  the  existence  of  other  sources, 

for 
I.  C.  E.  Grunsky,  former  city  engineer  of  San  Francisco  and 
sometimes  referred  to  as  the  "father  of  the  Hetch- 
Hetchy  system,"  says:  "In  the  case  of  San  Francisco, 
there  is  no  single  source  of  supply  so  preeminently 


ARGUMENT  579 

available  that  it  could  without  question  rule  out  otiiers 
from  comparison."  (See  "Reports  on  Water  Supplies 
of  San  Francisco,"  1908,  p.  15;  House  Committee 
Hearings,  Jan.  21,  1909,  p.  385.) 

2.  Professor  C.  D.  Marx,  a  hydraulic  expert  for  the  city, 

has  stated  that  "  It  can  be  readily  shown  that  the  drain- 
age area  needed  for  a  water  supply  furnishing  two  hun- 
dred million  gallons  per  day  can  be  had  on  a  number  of 
Sierra  streams.  .  .  .  That  the  drainage  areas  of  streams 
north  of  the  Tuolomne  give  better  promise  of  meeting 
these  requirements  cannot  be  denied.  ...  It  cannot 
be  said  that  the  physical  data  now  available  are  such 
as  to  admit  of  a  reliable  comparison  of  the  relative 
values  of  the  various  sources  of  water  supply  for  San 
Francisco  from  the  Sierras."  (See  "Transactions  of 
the  Commonwealth  Club,"  June,  1907.) 

3.  Marsden  Manson,  City  Engineer  of  San  Francisco,  has 

stated  that  "when  you  consider  the  matter  of  money 
alone,  there  are  available  quite  a  number  of  sites  and 
a  number  of  sources,  probably  more  than  a  dozen." 

4.  James  D.  Schuyler,  hydraulic  engineer  of  Los  Angeles, 

says  that  there  are  "  a  number  of  other  available  sources 
of  water  supply  for  San  Francisco."  (House  Com- 
mittee Hearings,  January  20,  1908,  p.  307.) 

5.  F.  P.  Stearns,  Chief  Engineer  of  the  Metropohtan  Water 

Board  that  supplies  Boston  and,  with  Mr.  Schuyler, 
consulting  engineer  on  the  Panama  Canal,  says:  "It 
is  feasible  to  provide  an  ample  supply  of  pure  water 
for  San  Francisco  from  nearer  sources  [than  the  Hetch- 
Hetchy]  by  works  which  would  be  much  more  econom- 
ical, eflicient,  and  reliable.  .  .  .  They  can  be  devel- 
oped to  supply  all  the  water  required  for  the  next  forty 
years  or  more."  (See  Journal  of  the  Association  oj 
Engineering  Societies,  December,  1908,  pp.  308,  311.) 

6.  Colonel  W.  H.  Heuer,  U.  S.  A.  Engineer  and  Chairman 

of  the  Executive  Committee  of  the  Federated  Water 
Committee  of  San  Francisco,  states  that  the  present 
near-by  sources  "can  be  increased  by  additional  dams 
and  by  raising  some  existing  dams,  so  as  to  supply 
considerably  more  than  a  hundred  million  gallons  per 


580  APPENDIX.    STIDENT  TIIEMIi^ 

day,  or  more  than  enough  to  supply  the  wants  of  San 
Francisco  during  the  next  forty  years,  and  at  reason- 
able cost.  .  .  .  Engineers  who  made  sur\'eys  of  Lake 
Eleanor  and  Hetch-Hetchy  inform  me  tl.at  there  are 
other  Sierra  supplies  that  can  he  brought  here  at  much 
less  cost  than  the  Hetch-Hetchy.''  (See  San  Francisco 
Merchants^  Association  Kn'icu>,  July,  1908.) 
C.  There  are  a  dozen  sources  of  water  supply  available  to  San 
Francisco,  for 

1.  The  Stanislaus  River  offers  many  advantages  as  a  source 

of  supply,  for 

a.  It  has  a  collecting  basin  "adequate  in  area,  with  pure 

waters."     (Marsden  IManson.) 

b.  The  river  rises  in  high  granite  mountains,  like  the 

Tuolomne,  and  not  in  a  national  park. 

c.  There  is  no  danger  of  contamination  from  increasing 

tourist  travel,  for 
(a)  There  is  no  scenery  comparable  to  that  in  the 
Hetch-Hetchy. 

d.  There  is  a  heavy  rainfall  and  a  watershed  protected 

by  the  forest  reserve. 

e.  The  pipe  line  to  the  city  is  shorter  than  to  the  Tuol- 

omne water  supply. 

/.  There  is  ample  storage  at  Donald's  Flat,  Relief,  and 
Kennedy  reservoir  sites. 

g.  Dams  are  already  constructed  and  more  are  to  be  con- 
structed by  the  Stanislaus  Power  Company  to  in- 
sure a  uniform  maximum  flow  of  water. 

h.  The  p>ower  company  will  sell  ample  power  to  pump 
water  over  the  coast  range  practically  at  cost. 

i.  The  saving  from  having  dams  and  power  plants  already 
built  will  offset  the  comparatively  small  cost  in- 
volved in  purchasing  the  full  rights  to  water. 

j.  The  company  has  guaranteed  water  rights  and  a 
supply  of  water  equal  to  all  of  the  city's  require- 
ments. 

2.  The  Eel  River  offers  many  advantages  as  a  source  of 

supply,  for 
a.  It  rises  in  an  uninhabited  mountain  watershed  in  the 
forest  reserve. 


ARGUMENT  581 

I.  Its  water  rights  are  guaranteed  perfect. 

c.  It  has  an  average  annual  rainfall  of  fifty  inches  and  a 

reservoir  capacity,  with  a  150-foot  dam,  of  seventy 
million  gallons,  or  twice  the  capacity  of  Hetch- 
Hetchy. 

d.  The  distance  of  the  distributing  reservoirs  is  less  than 

that  of  the  Tuolomne. 

e.  The  gravity  system  follows  the  Cahfornia  and  North- 

western Railroad  grade,  thus  saving  excessive  cost 
of  transportation  and  heavy  piping. 
/.  The  water  could  be  taken  through  Berkeley  and  Oak- 
land, thus  supplying  all  bay  cities  at  the  smallest 
expense, 
g.  A.  M.  Hunt,  an  engineer  famiUar  with  the  water  prob- 
lems of  San  Francisco,  reports  that  this  water  supply 
is  ample  and  can  be  brought  to  the  city  for  one-half 
the  expense  of  bringing  in  an  equal  amount  from 
the  Tuolomne  system. 
The  Feather  River  offers  good  opportunities,  for 
o.  It  contains  the  Big  Meadows  reservoir  site  of  about 

twenty  thousand  acres. 
h.  At  the  outlet  of  the  Meadows  the  topography  is  such 
that  by  the  construction  of  a  comparatively  small 
dam  a  storage  reservoir  may  be  created  which  will 
be  one  of  the  largest  artificial  bodies  of  water  in  the 
world,  having  a  capacity  of  over  two  hundred  and 
eighty  million  gallons,  or  four  times  the  greatest 
capacity  of  the  Hetch-Hetchy. 
c.  This  water  can  be  brought  to  San  Francisco  if  neces- 
sary. 
.  Pumping  from  the  San  Joaquin  River  affords  some  advan- 
tages as  a  source  of  supply,  for 
a.  When  near-by  sources  are  exhausted,  the  city  can 
secure  all  the  additional  water  she  wants,^  free  of 
cost,  by  pumping  from  the  San  Joaquin  River,  for 
(a)  Its  water  can  be  filtered  to  any  degree  of  purity. 
h.  The  cost  of  filtration  would  be  more  than  offset  by  the 
saving  in  head-works,  length  of  pipe-line,  rights  of 
way,  power  plants,  etc. 
;.  There  are  i  number  of  other  available  sources,  viz.  the 


582  APPESDIX.    STUDENT  THEMES 

Sacramento  River,  Lake  Tahoc,  the  Vuba  River,  the 
American  River,  the  Mokelumne  River,  the  Cosumnes 
River.  Clear  Lake,  and  the  Bay  Shore  (iravels. 

III.  The  conversion  of  the  Hetch-Hetchy  valley  into  a  lake  would 

disfigure  the  natural  beauty  of  the  scene,  for 

A.  It  is  self-evident  that  to  bury  a  great  landscape  garden  is 

not  the  way  to  increase  its  beauty. 

B.  The  newly  formed  lake  would  be  a  dismal  blot  on  the  land- 

scape, like  many  another  to  be  seen  in  the  Sierras,  for 

1.  It  would  be  full  only  for  a  month  or  two  in  the  spring. 

2.  WTien  drained,  the  slimy  sides  of  the  basin  and  the  slial- 

lower  parts  of  the  bottom  would  be  exposed  with  all 
the  gathered  drift  and  waste,  death  and  decay  of  the 
upper  basin. 

IV.  It  is  neither  legally  nor  morally  just  for  the  nation  to  allow  the 

city  of  San  Francisco  to  flood  the  Hetch-Hetchy,  for 

A.  The  act  of  1890  creating  the  Yosemite  National  Park  was  a 

special  act  having  for  its  object  the  preservation  of  the 
Hetch-Hetchy  valley  and  other  w-onders  of  the  park  in 
their  natural  condition,  and  none  of  its  terms  could  have 
been  repealed  by  the  general  law  of  1901  authorizing  the 
granting  of  rights  of  way,  etc.,  by  the  Secretary  of  the 
Interior,  unless  that  intention  were  expressly  declared  in 
the  general  act. 

B.  No  intention  to  repeal  the  special  act  of  i8go  is  declared  in 

the  general  act  of  1901,  for 
I.  This  is  the  opinion  expressed  by  the  Hon.  H.  E.  Hitch- 
cock in  a  letter  to  the  President  (February  20,  1905) 
and  confirmed  by  V.  H.  Metcalf,  Secretary  of  Com- 
merce and  Labor. 

C.  It  is  entirely  against  the  spirit  in  which  the  park  was  dedi- 

cated to  flood  and  destroy  a  tract  of  ground  which  bids 
fair  to  rival  the  great  Yosemite  itself  as  a  resort  for  tourists 
and  campers,  for 

1.  Immediately  above  the  valley  itself  and  extending  to  the 

very  source  of  the  Tuolomne  River,  which  flows  through 
the  Hetch-Hetchy,  is  the  most  wonderful  scenery  in 
the  park. 

2.  Five  hundred  square  miles  of  the  park  drain  directly 

into  the  proposed  municipal  system. 


ARGUMENT  583 

3.  Travel  to  all  this  region  will  be  restricted  if  a  municipal 
water  system  is  allowed  to  store  water  which  drains 
directly  from  it,  for 
a.  There  is  enormous  danger  of  pollution,  according  to 
the  statement  of  Horace  McFarland,  President  of 
the  American  Civic  Association,  who  has  given  care- 
ful consideration  to   the  subject  of  sanitation  of 
municipal  water  supplies.     He  says:    "Not  only 
in  the  reservoir  itself  would  danger  from  pollution 
exist,  but  a  greater  danger  would  arise  through  the 
possible   pollution   of    the   watershed    feeding   the 
reservoir  proposed,  for 

(a)  A  single  case  of  'walking  typhoid'  on  the  borders 

of   the  lake  proposed   to  be  established  as  a 
reservoir  could  start  an  epidemic  of  typhoid 
fever  in  the  city  to  be  supposedly  benefited, 
causing  the  loss  of  hundreds  of  innocent  lives,  for 
(i)  As  an  example,  the  city  of  Reading,  Penn- 
sylvania, has  had  eight  hundred  cases  of 
typhoid  fever  within  less  than  eight  weeks 
through    the    pollution    of    a    supposedly 
guarded  water  supply. 
(2)  The  epidemics  at  Plymouth,  at  Ithaca,  and 
elsewhere  are  well  known  to  have  resulted 
from  exactly  the  conditions  which   might 
be  expected  in  respect  to  the  city  of  San 
Francisco. 

(b)  One  case  of  'walking  typhoid,'  again,  affecting 

a  camper  or  stroller,  or  ordinary  visitor,  who 
had  acquired  typhoid  on  his  way  into  the  park, 
could  make  the  proposed  water  supply  a  source 
of  desperate  danger  to  the  city  supposed  to  be 
benefited. 

(c)  Nothing  is  better  established  in  the  modern  sani- 

tary science  than  that  the  watershed  of  any 
domestic  water  supply  must  be  jealously  guarded 
and  kept  free  from  human  occupancy  at  all 
times  if  that  water  is  to  result  in  other  than 
the  dissemination  of  disease,  and  the  bringing 
about  of  untimely  death." 


584  APPENDIX.    STUDENT   THEMES 

D.   It  is  unreasonable  to  destroy  a  unique  national  treasure  for 
the  sjike  of  enabling  the  city  of  San  Francisco  to  effect  a 
saving  in  money,  for 
I.  The  chief  advantage  of  the  Iletch-Hetchy  plan  is  that 
it  will  enable  the  city  to  save  the  dilTcrencc  between 
the  cost  and  the  market  price  of  water  power  for  light- 
ing its  streets  and  public  buildings  and  for  operating, 
possibly,  a  municipal  street  railway,  for 
a.  Marsden  Manson  says   {California   Wakly,  June  18, 
iqoq)  :   "It  is  the  possibility  of  a  power  supply  that 
makes  this  proposition  preeminently  attractive." 

Conclusion 

I.   Since  it  is  scientifically  shown  that  the  present  source  is  potable, 
II.   Since  there  are  many  other  practicable  sources  of  water-supply 
for  San  Francisco, 

III.  Since  the  Hetch-Hctchy  dam-lake  would  be  only  a  rough  imita- 

tion of  a  natural  lake  for  a  few  of  the  spring  months,  an  "open 
mountain  sepulchre"  during  the  rest  of  the  year,  and 

IV.  Since  it  is  legally  questionable  and  morally  unjust  for  the  nation 

to  give  away  a  public  treasure  for  the  special  economic  profit 
of  the  city  of  San  Francisco, 
Therefore :   The  nation  should  not  allow  the  city  of  San  Francisco  to 
utilize  the  Hetch-Hetchy  valley  as  a  municipal  reservoir. 

THE  VALUE  OF  INTERCOLLEGIATE  DEBATING 

A  GENXRATiox  ago  educational  institutions  paid  so  little  attention 
to  debating  that  it  was  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  find  a  university 
•ffering  systematic  courses  in  argumentation  and  debate.  To-day 
most  of  our  larger  universities  and  many  of  the  smaller  colleges  ofTer 
an  opportunity  for  training  of  this  kind.  Yet  of  all  the  forms  of  public 
speaking  which  have  been  used  for  intercollegiate  contests,  the  debate 
is  the  most  recent  in  development.  It  was  preceded  by  the  declama- 
tion and  the  oration,  both  of  which  are  still  in  vogue.  Each  of  these 
three  forms  has  a  distinct  purpose  of  its  own.  The  declaimcr  con- 
fines himself  absolutely  to  the  interpretation  of  the  thought  and 
expression  of  others.  The  orator  interprets  a  composition  of  his 
own,  a  composition  formal  in  nature  and  structure,  and  written  for 
a  particular  time  and  place.     The  debate  may  be  looked  upon  as  a 


ARGUMENT  585 

kind  of  oration  in  which  the  speaker  must  adjust  his  words  to  fit  the 
immediate  occasion  and  to  refute  the  argument  of  an  opponent.  It 
is  probably  this  extempore  nature  of  debating  that  has  made  it  so 
popular  for  intercollegiate  contests. 

Yet,  regardless  of  its  popularity,  there  are  many  who  doubt  the 
value  of  debating.  Some  claim  that  the  debate  is  too  formal,  too 
rigid  in  rule,  too  artificial  in  aim,  loo  unlike  the  contests  in  which  the 
debater  will  find  himself  placed  after  graduation.  Some  doubt  the 
value  of  the  study  given  to  the  questions  debated,  on  the  ground  that 
the  propositions  are  often  so  vague  and  so  cleverly  phrased,  that  the 
time  which  should  be  spent  on  vital  issues  is  wasted  in  quibbling  over 
the  meaning  of  terms.  Others  condemn  the  intercollegiate  debate 
upon  ethical  grounds,  arguing  that  the  desire  to  win  often  tempts 
the  debater  to  use  dishonest  methods,  and  that,  at  the  best,  the  de- 
bater must  often  act  the  part  of  a  hypocrite  in  supporting  opinions 
in  which  he  does  not  believe. 

But  should  not  the  department  of  public  speaking  in  the  university 
be  provided  with  some  adequate  means  of  showing  to  the  public  what 
it  can  turn  out  in  the  way  of  finished  public  speakers  ?  The  success 
of  the  debater  depends  upon  the  same  elements  which  make  for  the 
success  of  all  public  speakers  ;  he  must  be  able  to  reason  logically  and 
to  express  his  thoughts  orally  in  a  clear,  convincing,  and  persuasive 
manner.  In  order  to  do  this,  a  careful  analysis  and  an  unprejudiced 
investigation  of  the  subject  are  indispensable.  Such  habits  of  analy- 
sis, once  formed,  will  be  of  inestimable  value  to  the  debater  in  later 
life.  They  contend  also  that  the  questions  debated  are  usually  great 
pubhc  issues,  and  that  the  study  of  such  questions  prepares  the  stu- 
dent for  the  most  intelligent  citizenship.  Those  who  believe  that 
debating  has  a  positive  moral  value  defend  their  position  by  arguing 
that  the  debater  is  put  upon  his  honor ;  that  he  is  taught  self-control 
and  respect  for  the  opinions  of  others ;  and  that  he  does  not  act  the 
part  of  the  hypocrite  by  defending  either  side  of  a  question,  because 
of  the  fact  that  the  public  knows  that  this  is  only  a  necessary  require- 
ment of  the  game. 

The  secondary  school  succeeds  in  training  the  memories  of  students, 
but  often  fails  to  instill  correct  methods  of  thinking.  It  is  to  be  greatly 
regretted  that  the  opinions  of  most  men  are  largely  the  result  of  per- 
sonal interests,  popular  opinion,  or  other  forms  of  prejudice.  One 
of  the  highest  aims  of  debating  is  to  cultivate  in  the  student  such  an 
attitude  of  mind  that  he  will  base  his  opinions  upon  sound  reasoning 


586  APPESDIX.     STUDENT   THEMES 

rat  hiT  than  upon  desire  or  capriie.  Successful  argumentation  depends 
upon  systematic  thinking,  which  in  its  turn  is  based  upon  a  strict 
adherence  to  the  rules  of  logic.  The  debater  soon  learns  to  analyze 
questions  carefully  and  to  hold  only  those  opinions  which  he  has 
reached  logically.  The  success  of  the  individual  depends  to  a  great 
extent  upon  his  ability  to  pick  the  essential  things  from  those  which 
are  not  essential.  On  choosing  a  vocation  there  are  many  who  have 
not  the  power  to  analyze  properly  their  own  ability  and  to  select  the, 
thing  they  are  best  fitted  to  do.  The  debater  must  examine  his 
questions  critically,  he  must  learn  to  determine  with  precision  just 
what  the  question  involves,  what  is  irrelevant  and  what  essential. 
WTien  he  has  once  acquired  this  ability  to  analyze  a  situation,  he 
carries  it  with  him  throughout  his  life.  Debating,  then,  teaches  the 
power  of  sound  and  independent  thinking.  The  logical  thinker  is 
often  placed  in  an  awkward  position  if  he  cannot  readily  and  fluently 
express  his  thoughts.  Argumentation  aims  not  only  to  produce  logical 
methods  of  thinking,  but  also  to  train  the  student  to  express  his 
thoughts  orally  in  a  straightforward  and  effective  manner.  He 
learns  to  adapt  what  he  has  to  say  to  the  immediate  occasion  and  to  a 
particular  audience.  He  must  not  only  convince  but  he  must  per- 
suade; he  must  move  his  hearers  into  action.  All  of  this  depends 
upon  a  mastery  of  the  art  of  speaking,  an  art  which  when  once  learned 
by  the  debater,  will  ever  remain  a  valuable  asset. 

The  educational  value  of  the  study  of  the  question  itself  must  not 
be  overlooked.  In  making  a  thorough  analysis  of  the  propositions 
ordinarily  used  for  intercollegiate  debates,  the  student  is  preparing 
himself  for  useful  citizenship.  The  questions  used  are  usually  public 
issues,  problems  which  the  student  will  be  called  upon  to  help  solve 
in  later  life.  A  careful  and  consistent  study  of  such  public  problems 
means  simply  that  some  day  the  debater  will  bring  to  the  solution  of 
these  problems  a  well  trained-mind  and  a  knowledge  sufficient  to 
produce  good  results. 

The  objection  that  the  questions  debated  are  not  of  the  kind  which 
interest  the  public  might  easily  have  been  sustained  a  few  years  past, 
but  to-day  the  cry  of  vague  and  unfair  questions  cannot  be  consist- 
ently raised.  The  Round  Robin  system  of  debating  leagues  elimi- 
nates all  intentional  unfairness  in  the  phrasing  of  questions.  What 
could  be  the  object  in  trj-ing  to  phrase  a  proposition  so  as  to  favor 
one  side  or  the  other,  when  by  the  Round  Robin  method  each  uni- 
versity sends  out  both  an  affirmative  and  a  negative  team  ?     And  as 


ARGUMENT  587 

to  the  use  of  vague  terms  in  the  question,  terms  which  might  result  in 
a  quibble  over  their  meaning,  the  debaters  realize  that  to  waste  much 
time  in  this  way  means  that  less  time  will  be  left  for  the  discussion 
of  vital  issues.  They  know  that  the  use  of  any  questionable  methods 
only  serves  to  antagonize  both  audience  and  judges. 

It  must  be  admitted  that  the  debater  may  have  to  argue  for  a  cause 
in  which  he  does  not  believe,  but  so  far  as  the  intellectual  appeal  is 
concerned,  if  a  man  has  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  subject  and  if 
he  is  fair  minded,  he  should  be  able  to  present  the  arguments  of  one 
side  quite  as  well  as  those  of  the  other.  The  lawyer  must  be  willing 
to  plead  a  case  whether  he  is  sure  of  the  absolute  truth  of  his  position 
or  not.  There  is  some  truth  on  both  sides  of  nearly  every  question, 
and  in  the  case  of  the  lawyer  at  least,  the  value  of  discovering  and 
presenting  the  truth  of  either  side  of  a  proposition  cannot  be  over- 
estimated. It  is  only  in  the  matter  of  persuasion  that  the  questions 
of  belief  and  morality  assume  any  definite  relation,  and  even  from  this 
standpoint  there  is  nothing  in  debating  that  can  really  be  considered 
immoral,  for  the  public  realizes  that  the  speaker  may  be  forced  by 
circumstances  to  argue  against  his  convictions.  He  is  not  practicing 
deception,  but  merely  playing  the  game.  Would  it  be  consistent  to 
argue  that  the  villain  in  the  tragedy  is  a  bad  man  simply  because  he 
plays  his  part  to  perfection  ?  It  is  just  as  inconsistent  to  accuse  the 
debater  of  hypocrisy  when  both  he  himself  and  the  public  know  that 
he  is  merely  playing  his  part.  The  debater  wants  the  practice  in 
sound  thinking  and  effective  presentation  of  his  thought ;  all  that 
the  public  wants  is  a  thorough  discussion  of  both  sides  of  a  live  ques- 
tion. 

Just  as  the  football  and  baseball  game  represent  the  finished  prod- 
uct of  athletic  training,  so  the  intercollegiate  debate  represents  the 
finished  product  of  forensic  training.  Just  as  the  athletic  contest 
arouses  enthusiasm  for  manly  sports  and  inspires  loyalty  both  in 
the  athlete  and  in  the  onlooker,  so  the  intercollegiate  debate  arouses 
a  general  interest  in  debating  and  other  forms  of  public  speaking, 
and  at  the  same  time  instills  a  deeper  loyalty  into  the  hearts  both 
of  the  debaters  and  of  those  who  hear  the  debate.  Both  the  athlete 
and  the  debater  may  be  tempted  to  win  by  unfair  methods,  but  both 
realize  that  they  have  at  stake  not  only  their  own  honor  but  also 
the  honor  of  the  institution  which  they  represent.  In  the  same  way 
that  the  gridiron  star  learns  to  accept  an  occasional  blow  which  he 
feels  he  has  not  deserved,  and  yet  maintains  his  sportsmanlike  bear- 


588  APrr.XDix.   stvdrnt  them  lis 

inp,  so  the  (Ichatrr  learns  and  practices  that,  admirable  self-control 
which  makes  the  intercollegiate  debate  a  fair  contest  between  men. 
The  football  game  may  be  won  or  lost  in  a  few  seconds  of  keen  play- 
ing, and  in  the  same  manner  the  debater  may  win  or  lose  by  the  skill- 
ful turning  of  a  single  argument.  So  far  they  arc  alike,  the  athletic 
contest  and  the  debate;  where  do  they  difTer?  Let  us  answ^er  that 
question  and  conclude  our  discussion  with  the  words  of  George  P. 
Baker,  for  many  years  professor  of  argumentation  at  Harvard,  and 
the  first  man  to  develop  systematic  courses  in  argumentation  and 
debate.  Professor  Baker  says:  "The  great  superiority  of  debating 
lies  in  the  fact  that  it  adds  to  many  of  the  elements  of  the  present 
absorbing  interest  in  athletics  those  educational  values  which  con- 
tribute directly  to  the  highest  type  of  citizenship." 

III.   DESCRIPTION 

PITTSBURGH  BY  NIGHT 

It  was  on  a  balmy  evening  in  April  that  we  climbed  a  steep  hill  in 
the  outskirts  of  Pittsburgh  to  view  the  lights  of  the  city.  The  moon 
hung  low,  red-faced,  and  dull  through  the  all-enveloping  veil  of  smoke. 
Down  below-,  away  in  all  directions,  were  the  lights,  —  steady  yellow 
lights,  winking  green  and  red  ones,  millions  of  them.  They  pierced 
the  dark  surface  of  the  stately  Alleghany  as  it  wove  its  course  among 
them.  Brightly  illumined  steamers,  gliding  up  and  down  the  river, 
shattered  these  placid  reflections,  leaving  golden  or  parti-colored  ripples 
in  their  wake.  Now  and  then  a  dark  tug  swept  the  valley  with  its 
great  search-light  or  shot  its  white  shaft  into  the  smoky  starless  sky, 
while  from  over  the  hills  to  the  south,  where  the  great  blast  furnaces 
stood,  a  lurid  light  leapt  quivering  o\'er  the  horizon  and  cast  a  livid 
glow  over  all  the  sky.  The  flame  rose  high  for  a  moment,  then  died 
quickly  away,  leaving  murky  darkness  save  for  the  smoldering  embers 
low  in  the  south.  Soon  it  rose  again,  more  ominous  than  before, 
till  it  seemed  to  merge  all  in  a  vast  glowing  crucible  of  light. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE   VACUUM-CLEANER 

The  song  of  the  river  is  peaceful  and  soothing;  the  song  of  the 
bird  is  cheering  and  inspiring ;  but  the  song  of  the  vacuum-cleaner 
can  scarcely  be  described  in  such  specific  terms.     House-cleaning 


DESCRIPTION  589 

time !  What  visions  of  rugs  strewing  the  dusty  grass ;  furniture 
promiscuously  littering  the  front  porch,  the  back  porch,  and,  indeed, 
the  entire  yard ;  women  scuttling  back  and  forth,  frantically  waving 
dusters  and  mops  in  all  directions ;  and,  above  all  these  sounds,  the 
steady  drone  of  the  untiring  vacuum-cleaner  buzzing  in  the  ear  like 
a  determined  monster  bee,  bent  on  subordinating  all  other  sounds 
in  nature  to  its  own  disturbance.  It  groans,  as  if  discouraged  at  the 
amount  of  work  before  it,  yet  labors  on,  stopping  now  and  again 
with  an  asthmatic  wheeze  to  get  its  breath,  and  then  once  more  tak- 
ing up  its  persistent  buzzing.  There  is  a  brief  interval  of  silence  while 
it  is  being  moved  from  one  room  to  another.  But  just  as  the  grate- 
ful hush  begins  to  be  noticed,  the  demon  of  cleanliness  starts  again 
on  his  old  theme  —  buzz,  buzz,  groan,  wheeze ;  buzz,  buzz,  groan, 
wheeze.  And  so  the  monotonous  song  drones  on  through  the  day 
until  the  last  bit  of  work  is  done.  Then  the  machine  abruptly  emits 
a  final  wheeze,  buzzes  an  instant,  and  stops. 

THE  DESERT 

Stretching  to  the  east  of  Calcha,  the  heaped  sands  of  the  desert 
gleam  red  in  the  sun.  The  trail,  a  faint  mark  in  the  sand,  crawls 
along  painfully,  here  and  there  turning  aside  to  avoid  a  cactus  and 
finally  disappearing  among  the  sand  wastes,  away,  away  in  the  dis- 
tance. At  the  base  of  the  rounded  hills,  so  far  away  that  they  seem 
a  part  of  the  sky,  there  floats  a  cloud  of  white  dust  slowly  moving. 
Here  and  there  the  dust  devils  dance  their  mystic  dance  to  the  music 
of  the  drifting  sand.  To  the  right  a  clump  of  yuccas  flanked  by  grease- 
wood  and  mesquit,  flaunt  their  spikes  of  white  bells.  Wonderful 
colors,  from  deep  purple  to  lilac  and  gold,  as  the  light  shines  on  the 
sands,  gleam  and  disappear  and  gleam  again.  And  always  the  sun 
shines  burning  out  of  an  empty  sky. 

SUMMER 

The  country  road  lay  black  and  muddy  before  me,  but  beyond  the 
bordering  hedge  the  fields  stretched  away  inviting  in  their  greenness. 
Somehow  it  reminded  me  of  the  similar  situation  in  "Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress." The  pilgrims  had  grown  weary  of  the  narrow  way,  and  yield- 
ing to  temptation  they  strayed  into  the  forbidden  meadows,  the  mead- 
ows where  the  grass  lay  soft  beneath  their  feet.  There  appeared, 
however,  to  be  no  giant  awaiting  me  beyond  the  hedge ;  so  forgetting 


50O  APPENDIX.    STUDENT  THEMES 

the  terrible  fate  of  the  pilgrims.  1  jumped  the  thorny  shrubs.  But 
when  I  jumped  1  left  ambit  ion  behind.  The  warm  sunlight  cast  a 
ragged  shadow  where  the  hedge  stretehed  away,  followed  by  its 
mottled  border  of  shade.  The  soft  greenness  of  the  grass  enticed 
me.  And  so  heaving  a  sigh  of  contentment,  I  lay  down  and  looked 
dreamily  away  to  where  the  blue  of  the  sky  dipped  to  meet  the  dis- 
tant horizon.  The  untainted  freshness  of  the  meadow  swept  back, 
the  gentle  slope  soft  in  its  sun-basked  color.  Where  the  slope  rose  to 
touch  the  sky,  a  little  white  farm-house  peeped  from  among  the 
encircling  evergreens.  A  big  red  barn  rose  lazily  against  the  sky,  and 
the  windmill,  delicate  and  white  in  the  distance,  blended  hazily  with 
the  soft  blue  background.  jNIy  eyes  closed  wearily,  and  as  I  sank  into 
slumber  I  still  saw,  or  dreamt  I  saw,  the  meadow  and  the  sky. 

IN  A  CHURCH 

The  afternoon  sunlight  shone  golden  through  the  stained  richness 
of  the  high-paned  church  windows.  The  cheerful  light  only  made  the 
great  vaulted  ceiling  of  the  deserted  church  seem  more  vast  and  coldly 
dark.  In  the  dim  overhead  spaces  shadowy  rows  of  carved  dragon 
heads  glared  down  and  showed  their  teeth  ir.  gloomy  helplessness. 
Great  leaded  candelabra  hung  heavily  from  the  supporting  chains 
that  disappeared  in  the  shadows  above.  The  polished  backs  of  the 
pews,  the  carved  aisle  posts,  as  they  marched  in  solemn  state  up  to  the 
wide  pulpit,  basked  in  the  golden  brown  of  the  mellowed  light.  The 
heavy  grandeur  of  the  pulpit  blended  with  the  massiveness  of  its 
background  of  carved  oak  panelling.  The  pastor's  chair  reared  the 
scrollwork  of  its  back  in  twisted  contrast  to  the  solemn  simplicity  of 
its  surroundings.  The  choir  loft  was  dark  beneath  the  sombre  brown 
of  the  high  reaching  organ  pipes.  Slowly  the  afternoon  sunlight  faded 
and  the  shadows  crept  down  from  the  vaulted  darkness  above.  The 
ranks  of  pews  grew  dim  and  indistinct  till  only  the  rich  color  of  the 
high  arched  windows  mirrored  the  last  faint  rays  of  day. 

MADEMOISELLE   FIFI 

Hastily  scanning  all  the  faces,  dear  old  Mrs.  Rogers  glanced  about 
the  cozy  parlor.  WTien  she  finally  saw  Mademoiselle  Fifi,  as  the  men 
called  her,  her  eyes  lit  w-ith  interest,  and  she  leaned  forward  the  more 
closely  to  examine  the  girl.  Fifi's  eyes  held  her  attention :  a  hazel 
green  they  seemed  (though  some  insisted  that  they  were  black),  with 


DESCRIPTION  591 

^neer,  dancing  lights ;  large,  but  shallow  withal,  their  beauty  strangely 
marred  by  the  curiously  scant  lashes,  and  eyebrows  of  a  light  brown 
color.  Her  eyes  narrowed  —  maliciously,  Mrs.  Rogers  thought  —  as  she 
smilingly  greeted  another  girl,  then  slowly  dilated  as  she  turned  again 
to  her  companion  and  listened  gravely  to  his  inane  chatter.  Her 
nose  was  small  and  flippantly  tilted.  Her  skin,  just  tinged  with 
pink,  was  marvellously  clear  and  smooth,  save  where  a  few,  faint 
lines  of  discontent  crossed  the  low,  broad  forehead.  Her  hair  was 
auburn,  silken  rather  than  heavy,  and  fell  loosely  about  her  tiny  ears. 
"But,"  thought  Mrs.  Rogers,  "the  girl's  mouth  will  show  her  real 
character."  The  lips  were  thin  and  tightly  compressed,  and  of  a 
vivid  scarlet.  Danger  and  malice  lurked  at  the  corners  and  in  the 
sharp  chin.     "A  coquette,"  Mrs.  Rogers  said  to  herself,  and  sighed. 

MY   GRANDFATHER 

My  grandfather,  as  I  knew  him,  was  a  retired  doctor  more  than 
sixty  years  old.  He  was  a  tall,  strong  man,  wearing  a  full  beard 
grizzled  to  an  indifferent  color,  the  lighter  parts  having  a  yellowish 
tinge.  His  hair  in  earlier  years  had  been  sandy,  but  now  was  almost 
entirely  white,  and  worn  "roached"  straight  back  from  the  forehead. 
This  "  roach,"  combined  with  a  prominent  aquiline  nose  and  keen  gray 
eyes,  gave  him  a  rather  bold  and  determined  appearance.  He  always 
wore  a  white  vest,  a  habit  which,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  unfortunate, 
since  the  garment  usually  bore  evidence  to  his  fondness  for  tobacco. 
Over  this  vest,  in  winter,  he  wore  an  ample  Prince  Albert  coat,  while 
a  carefully  brushed  silk  hat  added  dignity  to  his  tall  straight  figure. 
In  summer  this  hat  was  replaced  by  a  brown  tall-crowned  straw, 
while  the  Prince  Albert  coat  gave  way  to  a  long  black  alpaca,  which 
rested  on  his  shoulders,  but  seldom  anywhere  else.  He  always  car- 
ried a  cane.  On  week  days  it  was  a  well-worn  brown  stick  of  hickory, 
but  on  Sundays,  election  days,  and  in  honor  of  Masonic  banquets, 
he  swung  an  ebony  staff  curiously  dotted  its  entire  length  with  ivory. 
With  the  possible  exception  of  his  pipe,  there  was  nothing  among  his 
personal  possessions  more  sacred  to  him  than  this  cane.  This  pipe, 
however,  so  far  as  I  am  able  to  recollect,  had  no  peculiarly  valuable 
quality,  unless  strength  be  counted  such ;  in  that  case  it  was  cer- 
tainly beyond  price. 

My  impressions  of  my  grandfather  as  a  man  consist,  as  one's  im- 
pressions of  several  years'  standing  usually  do,  of  the  memory  of  dis- 


^93 


APPENDIX.    STUDENT   TIIEMEi> 


connccttHl  occasions.  He  htid,  as  I  said,  discontinued  the  practice 
of  mciiicinc  because  of  his  age;  but  people  occasionally  came  for 
him.  1  rtimMnbor  once,  as  he  sat  under  the  great  cottonwood  behind 
the  house,  that  a  man  came  to  ask  him  to  visit  a  sick  person. 

".\re  you  able  to  pay  for  my  services  ?"  the  doctor  asked. 

"Yes,  sir."  the  man  answered  a  little  testily. 

"Then  you  can  secure  the  attention  of  any  practicing  physician 
in  the  city.  You  had  better  see  Dr.  Mcl-'arland."  was  my  grand- 
father's reply.  Had  the  man  been  without  means,  as  was  often  the 
case  with  those  who  came  to  him,  he  would  have  given  his  services 
gladly. 

Under  this  cottonwood  he  could  usually  be  found,  when  the  weather 
permitted.  After  his  morning  trip  down  town,  and  again  after  his 
short  after-dinner  nap.  he  would  tilt  his  chair  back  against  the  huge 
rough  trunk,  light  his  pipe,  and  sit  for  hours.  Here  he  read  his  news- 
papers and  his  letters,  and  entertained  his  friends.  Here,  too,  in 
the  long  summer  evenings,  he  would  move  his  cane-bottomed  chair 
out  from  under  the  rustling  canopy  and  gaze  at  the  stars.  An  old 
bachelor  friend  who  lived  not  far  away  used  to  come,  sometimes,  to 
talk  of  the  stars  with  him.  It  was  a  great  treat  for  me  when,  in  the 
twilight,  old  Robert  Quincy  would  come  with  his  wonderful  old  star 
maps  under  his  arm,  and  sit  with  my  grandfather  amid  a  thin  blue 
cloud  of  tobacco  smoke.  These  old  maps  had  all  the  constellations 
curiously  pictured  with  beings,  very  queer,  but  very  real  to  me. 
Unable,  as  I  was  then,  to  understand  much  of  their  scientific  discus- 
sions. I  learned  from  them  only  the  ancient  mythical  ideas  of  the 
stellar  population.  Even  yet,  when  I  think  of  these  two  old  while- 
haired  men,  of  neither  of  whom  I  ever  heard  a  word  of  unfriendly 
criticism,  they  seem  connected,  in  some  way,  with  that  mysterious 
world  of  which  I  heard  them  talk  so  much. 

Sometimes  as  he  sat  looking  into  the  southern  sky,  he  seemed  to 
read  in  it  the  stories  he  told  me  of  his  life  in  the  south  before  the  Civil 
War ;  of  his  troubles,  as  the  only  outspoken  Union  man  among  his 
Texan  neighbors;  of  the  Sfiuads  of  Union  men  that  he  smuggled 
through  the  rebel  lines  ;  of  his  escapes  from  the  nooses  these  neighbors 
prepared  for  him ;  and  of  his  ultimate  flight,  for  his  family's  sake,  to 
the  north.  Once,  when  I  had  followed  him  down  to  the  orchard  for 
apples,  he  put  his  hand  on  my  head,  as  was  his  custom,  and  told  me 
that  in  future  years,  when  he  was  no  more,  I  would  remember  that  very 
day  in  the  orchard,  and  perhaps  other  incidents  connected  with  him, 


NARRATIVE  593 

" and,"  he  continued,  "I  hope  that  you  will ;  but  remember  more  than 
that.  Remember  to  be  an  honest  man,  independent  of  pubHc  opinion, 
to  do  what  you  believe  to  be  right,  and  when  you  approach  death  you 
can  feel,  as  I  do,  no  fear  but  that  your  life  has  been  as  it  was  in- 
tended, and  that  whatever  there  is  beyond  this  life,  if  there  is  anything, 
will  be  peaceful." 

ANGER 

His  feeling  was  one  of  anger  only.  He  had  been  so  confident  of  the 
election.  Without  much  conceit  he  had  told  himself  that  he  was 
one  of  the  most  prominent  men  in  his  class.  He  had  taken  an  active 
part  in  almost  every  line  of  student  endeavor,  and  belonged  to  several 
well-known  organizations.  He  had  gone  up  to  the  list  posted  on  the 
traditional  tree  that  morning,  more  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  see  who 
else  had  been  elected  to  the  senior  society.  He  failed  to  find  his 
name  among  the  elected  ones.  At  first  he  was  surprised,  hardly 
realizing  that  it  could  have  been  left  off.  This  feeling  was  followed 
by  a  feeling  of  keen  disappointment,  that  the  highest  honor  of  the 
college  had  been  denied  him.  Almost  immediately,  however,  he 
became  angry,  angry  at  those  men  whose  names  were  there,  angry 
at  two  men  who  he  was  certain  had  kept  him  out,  angry  at  every- 
one and  everything.  He  was  so  angry  that  he  refused  to  speak  to  a 
group  of  his  intimate  friends  who  were  standing  there,  but  walked 
off  sullenly  towards  his  classroom. 

IV.    NARRATIVE 
TONY 

For  more  than  an  hour  Tony  had  perched  saucily  on  the  Major's 
big  roll-top  desk,  waiting  for  that  officer  to  finish  his  government 
report.  It  was  far  past  time  for  their  afternoon  froUc,  but  Tony 
was  patient,  for  the  Major's  feats  with  pen,  paper,  and  ink  had  never 
ceased  to  be  fascinating  to  the  little  gray  monkey.  It  was  an  absurdly 
intricate  thing,  this  monthly  report  to  headquarters,  for  governing 
this  small  island  in  the  tropics  was  very  much  of  a  problem.  But 
at  last  the  accounts  were  all  balanced,  and  the  hundredth  disquieting 
symptom  duly  tabulated.  Tony  blinked  owlishly  as  the  Major  neatly 
f  Idcd  the  closely  written  sheets  and  placed  them  under  a  weight ; 
and  his  little  eyes  eagerly  followed  his  master's  every  movement  as 
he  carefully  destroyed  the  loose  copies  lying  about.     Then  the  hist 


5Q4  APPENDIX.    STiDEST   THEMES 

shool  was  torn  in  pitvcs  and  lonsigncd  to  the  wasle-hasket.  Tony 
loapinl  from  his  porch  and  the  frolic  began. 

For  a  time  the  hall  tlew  merrily  to  and  fro.  'I'ony  dashed  madly 
about,  his  shrill  chatter  and  staccato  bark  mingling  strangely  with 
the  Major's  laughing  banter.  They  were  indeed  good  chums.  Then, 
just  when  the  game  was  at  its  height,  some  thoughtless  person  called 
the  Major  away.  Tony  plainly  resented  such  desertion.  Five 
minutes  he  beguiled  by  rather  aimlessly  rolling  the  ball  about,  and 
then  climbed  to  his  perch  on  top  of  the  desk  and  sulked.  That  is 
how  he  happened  to  spy  the  open  inkwell. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  the  ]\Iajor  burst  into  the  room.  He  had 
suddenly  remembered  Tony  —  and  the  report  lying  loose  on  his 
desk.  With  inky  paws  the  little  gray  monkey  was  slowly  and  de- 
lightedly tearing  the  tenth  sheet  in  long  strips,  which  he  dropped  one 
by  one  into  the  waste-basket  below.  "Tony,  you  rascal !"  yelled  the 
Major  in  a  fury.  The  little  fellow^  had  never  heard  that  voice  before. 
Like  a  flash  he  leaped  to  the  low  partition  and  turned  bewildered 
eyes  to  the  angry  officer  just  as  he  hurled  the  inkwell.  It  struck 
the  partition  near  the  top.  The  dark  contents  showering  Tony  set 
him  aquiver  with  rage  and  fright.  With  a  shrill  scream  he  leaped 
through  the  window,  scuttled  shrieking  across  the  clearing,  and 
disappeared  in  the  jungle. 

Many  months  later  one  of  the  lieutenants  returned  from  a' scouting 
expedition  with  the  story  of  a  strangely  spotted  ape  which  had  fol- 
lowed him  several  miles  through  the  jungle,  scolding  shrilly  and  shy- 
ing sticks  and  stones.  But  no  one  else  at  the  Post  ever  again  saw 
Tony. 

THE  FIREMAN 

On  the  payroU  ol  the  M.  C.  Railroad  he  was  plain  Charles  Gannet, 
Fireman,  but  he  was  destined  to  get  a  great  opportunity  to  "make 
good."     This  is  how  it  came  about. 

The  two  termini  of  the  road  had  grown  to  be  "sixth"  cities  and 
demanded  ten-hour  trains  instead  of  the  twelve-hour  expresses  that 
had  previously  l^cen  their  pride.  Five  new  Pacific  typ>e  locomotives 
of  superb  dimensions  had  been  purchased  and  delivered  for  service 
on  the  "Limited "  trains.  The  new  engines  were  put  on  local  service 
for  two  weeks  to  limber  them  up,  and  then  they  were  to  be  given  fast 
rurrs.  Number  31 15,  however,  was  placed  in  Limited  service  in  a 
week's  time,  because  of  the  w-recking  of  the  old  engine  which  hauled 
the  "Autocrat,"  as  the  Limited  train  was  called. 


NARRATIVE  595 

On  the  night  of  3iis's  third  trip  at  the  head  of  six  shining  Pull- 
mans, the  elements  seemed  to  have  conspired  to  make  her  task  a 
Herculean  one.  A  roaring  northwest  gale  swept  in  over  the  prairies 
and  the  great  lake,  driving  angry  needles  of  sleet  in  spluttering  volleys 
against  the  cab  windows.  The  great  electric  arc-lights  under  the 
train  shed  which  sheltered  the  Pidlmans,  swayed  and  blinked  in  the 
swirling  ice  storm  which  tore  up  the  platforms  and  lost  itself  among 
the  strings  of  darkened  coaches  waiting  on  deserted  tracks. 

Ten  o'clock  !  —  with  the  first  stroke  of  the  great  station  clock  two 
sharp  hisses  sounded  in  the  darkened  cab  of  31 15,  and  Frank  O'Neil 
and  Charles  Gannet,  engineer  and  fireman,  straightened  their  backs 
and  concentrated  themselves  for  a  seven  hours'  run.  The  great 
engine  barked  twice,  and  then  came  a  furious  snorting  and  shower  of 
sparks  as  the  drivers  spun  around  on  the  sleety  rails.  O'Neil's  mas- 
ter-hand quickly  eased  the  head  of  steam  in  the  cylinders,  and  31 15 
crept  cautiously  over  the  switches  and  frogs,  past  winking  green  and 
red  lights  toward  the  throat  of  the  yard. 

Six  toasted  Pullmans  with  dusted  chairs  and  pohshed  brass  gUded 
quietly  out  into  the  roaring  storm.  The  barks  of  the  locomotive 
grew  louder  and  then  dropped  to  a  mufSed  throb  as  G'NeU  hooked  her 
back  on  the  reverse  lever.  The  last  switch  chcked  bj^,  and  the  green 
and  red  lights  whisked  past  as  O'Neil  settled  back  on  his  wooden 
shelf  and  pulled  open  the  throttle  another  notch. 

The  wind  roared  back  along  the  great  black  boiler  and  drove  clouds 
of  steam  and  smoke  scudding  past  the  window  that  was  half  closed 
to  keep  the  sleet  from  bruising  O'Neil's  face  and  body. 

Above  the  throb  of  the  exhaust,  the  roll  of  the  sleet  driving  against 
the  cab  made  all  but  the  shrillest  shrieks  of  the  wind  inaudible. 
Gannet,  in  thin  overalls  and  jumper,  was  pulling  open  the  chains  of 
the  furnace  door,  and  shoveling  great  scoops  of  coal  into  the  white- 
hot  ^urnace.  Each  time  the  furnace  doors  opened,  the  light  turned 
the  sleet  to  a  golden  shower,  and  the  smoke  and  steam  clouds  to  great 
pink  banners  in  the  sky.  The  little  gauge  lamp  bobbed  and  bhnked 
at  the  two  silent  figures,  one  motionless  in  his  seat,  gazing,  searching 
the  outer  darkness,  the  other,  bending  and  swinging  like  a  piece  of 
machinery.  Ten  tons  of  coal  were  there  to  be  fed  into  the  bottom- 
less furnace.  No  child's  play  that,  on  a  lurching,  jumping  express 
engine !  A  curve,  and  the  right  side  of  the  cab  rises  suddenly  and 
shakes  and  quivers  as  if  to  tear  itself  from  some  terrific  force. 

Back  in  the  Pullmans,  men  with  cigars  in  their  mouths  converse  in 


596  Ari'j:.\ni.\.   student  themes 

languid  tones,  and  yawn.  In  the  car  behind,  two  children  stampei 
down  the  carpeted  aisle  to  }:;et  a  lup  uf  water,  and  come  trudging 
back  to  their  fond  mother  with  a  l)rimming  cup  in  their  small  hands. 
A  man  across  the  aisle  has  had  the  porter  set  a  table  upon  which  he  is 
playing  chess,  with  occasional  interruptions  as  the  children  bump 
the  tables,  or  the  black  knight  loses  his  balance  and  falls  down,  bring- 
ing similar  disaster  to  two  pawns  and  a  queen. 

The  while  beam  of  the  electric  headlight  sways  along  the  reeling 
track,  and  greets  each  bridge  or  culvert  with  a  fleeting  w-ink.  The 
glass  on  O'Neil's  window  is  now  glazed  with  ice,  and  after  tugging 
his  cap  tighter  over  his  ears  and  turning  the  visor  lower  over  his  eyes, 
he  slides  the  protecting  shield  aside,  and  faces  the  jagged  bolts  of 
ice  that  shriek  around  the  boiler  head  and  burst  to  fragments  w-hen 
they  hit  the  window-frame.  Gannet  has  been  trying  the  injectors 
and  wipes  the  sweat  froiti  his  face  so  that  he  may  get  a  look  at  the 
quivering  needle  on  the  steam  gauge.  One  hundred  and  ninety-six 
pounds  of  steam  ;  not  enough,  —  210  is  what  she  should  carry.  He 
swings  open  the  furnace  doors  and  piles  scoopful  upon  scoopful  of  coal 
into  the  flames.  The  doors  are  clanged  shut,  and  as  he  straightens 
his  back  once  more,  he  sees  O'Neil's  nostrils  dilate  as  he  draws  his 
head  in  from  the  pelting  outside.  O'Neil's  left  hand  swings  the  long 
lever  forward  and  his  right  "feels"  the  air. 

''Whr — ^\^lr — "  he  shouts  above  the  roar  to  Gannet. 

Gannet  jumps  to  the  gangway  on  his  side  of  the  cab  and  looks  back. 
"Trr — whr — r"  he  shouts  back.  The  engine  stiffens  forward  in 
the  grasp  of  the  air  brakes  and  the  Pullmans  grrrrrr-rr  as  the  big 
bogy  trucks  feel  the  grip.  Before  the  train  has  come  to  a  full  stop, 
Gannet  has  disappeared  through  the  gangway  on  his  side  of  the  cab. 
O'Neil  follows  with  a  monkey-wrench.  The  wind  rips  open  his  coat 
and  his  hat  is  switched  off  his  head.  The  wrench  in  his  hand  becomes 
slippery  with  ice.  A  tender  truck-wheel  has  a  hot  box,  because  it 
was  not  run  in  long  enough  in  local  service.  Gannet  has  pulled  the 
flaming  waste  and  grease  out  of  the  journal  box  and  is  busy  repacking 
it.  A  hose  is  screwed  into  one  side  of  the  box  so  that  water  from  the 
tender  can  keep  it  cool. 

The  conductor  comes  staggering  up  in  a  rubber  coat  and  curses 
audibly.  Back  in  the  Pullmans,  a  passenger  suddenly  takes  his  feet 
from  the  window-sill,  and  leans  forward  to  peer  out  into  the  dark. 

"WTiy,  the  train  has  stopped,"  he  exclaims  in  amazement.  "I 
wonder  how  long  we  have  been  here?"    "Where  are  we?"  are  the 


NARRATIVE  597 

remarks  that  are  forthcoming  upon  this  discovery.  Then  impartial 
criticism  is  leveled  at  the  road  for  "rotten  service"  and  delays. 

Outside,  two  drenched,  sleet-covered  figures  toil  over  a  bent  hose- 
coupling.  After  twenty  minutes  of  finger  skinning  and  bruising 
with  the  frozen  wrench,  the  coupling  is  screwed  in  and  two  sharp 
blasts  from  the  deep-throated  engine-whistle  call  back  the  reluctant 
brakeman,  who  has  been  leaning  against  the  platform  of  the  last  car, 
sheltered  from  the  sleet,  and  valiantly  holding  a  red  lantern. 

O'Neil,  stiff  and  all  but  frozen,  sits  propped  up  on  the  right  side 
of  the  cab,  his  bleeding  face  peering  out  into  the  driving  ice,  as  31 15, 
steaming  to  her  limit  through  Gannet's  superb  efforts,  is  making  up 
lost  time. 

A  roar,  a  dull  rumble,  and  the  clicking  of  switches  startles  Gannet 
as  he  is  reaching  for  the  "injector  choke  valve."  He  looks  quickly 
at  O'Neil,  who  is  still  leaning  out  of  the  window. 

Gannet  knows  that  they  should  never  take  the  D — t  viaduct  at 
any  such  speed  as  they  are  going  now.  He  pulls  O'Neil's  arm ;  it 
falls  limp  by  his  side,  and  O'Neil's  head  nods  forward  on  the  window- 
seat.  Quick  as  a  flash,  Gannet  snaps  the  throttle  shut  and  gives 
her  a  pinch  of  air  to  steady  the  train.  As  the  engine  rolls  smoothly 
at  reduced  speed,  he  pulls  O'Neil  down  to  the  cab  floor. 

Unconscious,  pummeled  and  slashed  by  the  ice,  frozen  clothes  on 
his  body,  O'Neil  falls  stiflily  to  the  floor.  Gannet,  oblivious  to  the 
sorry  condition  of  his  engineer,  gazes  intently  ahead  through  the 
swirling  sleet  at  the  ever  changing  signal  lights.  Soon  the  yard  is 
past ,  and  as  the  last  switch  clicks  under  wheel  and  its  green  light  sweeps 
by,  Gannet  steps  down  on  the  cab  floor,  and  tenderly  lifts  O'Neil's 
limp  form  over  to  the  left  side  of  the  cab,  and  there,  wrapped  in  the 
great  canvas  storm  curtain  which  Gannet  has  torn  from  its  hooks 
over  the  cab  arch,  O'Neil  rests  in  a  heap  against  the  asbestos  boiler 
lagging.  As  soon  as  Gannet  sees  that  there  is  no  danger  of  O'Neil's 
tumbling  to  the  floor  through  the  sudden  lurching  of  the  engine,  he 
again  goes  over  to  the  right  side.  Peering  ahead  for  a  moment  to 
get  his  bearings  and  seeing  a  signal  light  go  by,  Gannet  shovels  in 
frenzied  haste  some  coal  into  the  now  half  empty  firebox.  Then  he 
opens  the  try-cocks  and  after  running  the  injectors  until  the  water 
is  at  the  top  cock,  he  pulls  the  throttle  open  to  the  last  notch  and 
3115  paws  over  the  steel  in  a  way  to  make  many  a  passenger  engineer 
blanch  with  fear. 

How  Gannet  acted  engineer  and  fireman  on  the  "Autocrat"  that 


59S  APPENDIX.    STUDENT  THEMES 

night  is  a  golden  page  in  railroad  history.  Now  raking  and  feeding 
tlie  fire,  now  trying  the  injectors,  now  peering  out  of  the  cab  window 
intt)  the  murderous  rain  and  sleet,  and  then  glancing  at  the  steam  and 
air  gauges.  Gannet  acted  like  a  man  possessed,  jumping,  staggering 
in  the  cab  of  the  roaring,  lurching  engine.  Twice  in  his  fleeting 
glances  out  of  the  cab  window  he  saw  the  "red"  showing  ahead. 
Firmly  he  checked  her  mile-a-minute  gait  and  let  the  air  ease  off  so 
that  the  Pullmans  rolled  quietly  over  the  cross-over,  and  then  with 
a  nervous  jerk  he  opened  the  throttle  so  that  the  couplings  hiid  no 
time  to  slack  up  and  snap  the  Pullmans  as  the  engine  jumped  forward. 
For  five  hours,  the  soHtary  figure  spurred  the  1 500  horse-power  steed 
on  into  the  teeth  of  the  storm.  The  great  steel  sides  of  the  tank  were 
white  with  ice,  and  the  olive  green  of  the  Pullmans  had  blended  to  a 
lead-gray  color.  Great  icicles  hung  under  the  running  board  and 
steps  of  the  cab. 

.\s  dawn  tinged  the  blackness  of  the  storm  with  gray,  the  long  train 
slowed  down  for  the  terminal  yards  with  a  spluttering  of  locked 
wheels  on  the  "whiskered"  frosty  rails.  Slowly  31 15  nosed  her 
way  past  day  coaches  and  ''diners"  in  the  storage  yards,  and  just  as 
the  station  clock  pointed  to  ten  minutes  past  eight,  the  gray  streaked 
locomotive  came  to  a  stop  in  front  of  the  bumper  of  track  i. 

Ten  minutes  late!  —  The  ''Autocrat"  was  ten  minutes  late! 
How  those  business  men  back  in  the  Pullmans  jostled  and  squeezed 
each  other  as  they  lined  up  in  the  aisles  of  the  cars,  suit  cases  in  hand, 
waiting  for  the  imperturbable  darkey  porter  to  lift  the  trap  door 
and  let  them  down  the  steps  to  the  platform.  Nor  did  their  sneering 
remarks  cease  as  they  walked  past  the  great  gray  dripping  engine, 
panting  softly  in  the  heavy  air  of  the  train  shed.  They  glanced  cas- 
ually up  at  the  cab  and  saw  a  coal-blackened  face  with  bloodshot  eyes, 
looking  listlessly  down  at  them.  Even  the  icicles  on  the  running 
board  and  the  cr>'stals  on  the  cab  windows  failed  to  excite  any  com- 
ment. 

Three  days  later,  O'Neil,  lying  in  a  white  cot  at  the  hospital  with 
a  bad  case  of  pneumonia,  received  a  gold  watch  from  the  company, 
together  with  a  note  saying  that  he  would  receive  full  pay  until  his 
recovery  was  complete. 

As  for  Gannet,  the  following  Monday  when  he  reported  at  the 
round  house  for  work,  he  found  another  fireman  on  number  3115. 

When  he  interviewed  the  round  house  superintendent,  and  asked 
hun  what  engine  he  had  been  transferred  to,  the  "super"  turned  on 


NARRATIVE  599 

his  heel  and  said,  "31 15  will  haul  the  'Autocrat  '  to-day;  back  her 
down  at  9.45."  In  other  v/ords,  31 15  was  his  engine.  He  had  been 
promoted  to  the  right  side  ! 

THE  BLOOD   TIE 

When  Bannister's  regiment  was  ordered  home  from  the  Philip- 
pines some  six  months  after  Aguinaldo's  surrender,  because  the  lazy, 
shiftless  life  of  the  East  had  gotten  into  his  blood,  and  also  because 
the  home-call,  which  seemed  to  reach  across  half  a  world  of  blue  ocean, 
bidding  the  other  men  to  await  impatiently  the  command  to  embark 
in  the  stuffy  little  collier  which  was  to  carry  them  back  to  God's 
Country  was,  in  his  case,  missing,  Bannister  took  counsel  with  him- 
self and  decided  to  act. 

And  so  it  happened  that  when  the  first  sergeant  called  the  roll  the 
next  morning,  he  placed  a  little  cross  mark  opposite  one  of  the  B's 
and  when  he  turned  in  his  report  to  the  Captain,  it  contained  a  memo- 
randum, "Private  Bannister  absent  from  roll-call." 

And  when  two  more  roll-calls  had  passed  and  two  more  cross  marks 
were  registered  opposite  Bannister's  name,  the  Captain  reported  a 
deserter  from  his  company  and  Bannister's  description  was  scattered 
through  the  army  with  orders  to  take  him  and  hold  him  for  court- 
martial.  Then  Bannister's  company,  including  his  own  bunk-mate, 
promptly  forgot  the  incident  in  the  excitement  of  embarkation  and 
Bannister  became  only  a  memory  to  his  comrades,  a  profitable  sub- 
ject of  discussion,  beginning  with,  "I  wonder  what  struck  Banty," 
and  ending  likewise. 

In  the  meantime.  Bannister,  literally  speaking,  had  allowed  no 
grass  to  grow  under  his  feet.  Manila  was  not  a  safe  place  for  an  Amer- 
ican deserter  and  Bannister  had  no  relish  for  close  confinement. 
With  the  assistance  of  a  betel-chewing  Aguinaldo  sympathizer,  he 
smuggled  himself  out  of  the  town  and  the  next  morning  found  him- 
self on  the  road  which  leads  to  Morong.  His  idea  was  to  reach  the 
hill  country  of  Nueva  Ecija,  where  his  new-found  friend  had  assured 
him  there  were  still  nimierous  villages  where  no  Americanos  were 
ever  seen  and  where  he  could  lose  himself  with  small  danger  of  ever 
being  picked  up  by  a  stray  foraging  party  of  his  countrymen.  So  he 
made  a  detour  around  Morong,  and  sleeping  in  the  rice  fields  by  day. 
and  traveling  by  night,  made  his  way  northward. 

For  two  weeks  he  travelled  in  this  manner,  using  his  smattering  of 


6oo  APP/.SDix.   sjii)K.\T  'iiH:.\n:s 

Spanish  and  his  hhimoviiiR  j^rin  to  the  best  advantage,  and  then,  one 
morning  at  sunrise,  having,  three  days  previously,  skirled  around 
the  last  American  garrison,  he  entered  the  dirty  little  village  of 
Manito. 

And  here  it  was  that  Way  of  the  American  Export  Company  found 
him  six  months  later. 

Those  six  months  had  made  many  changes  in  Bannister.  His 
army  boots  were  worn  out,  his  khaki  suit  had  been  discarded  in  favor 
of  the  more  comfortable  native  dress  of  a  shirt  and  breeches,  his 
beard  had  grown,  and  the  spots  on  him  which  were  not  covered  by 
hair,  had  been  tanned  to  nearly  the  color  of  his  companions  ;  but  still, 
with  all  this.  Way  had  recognized  a  countryman  in  him  immediately, 
for  neither  time  nor  a  tropical  sun  could  shrink  his  stature  to  the  size 
of  the  little,  spindle-legged  black  men,  nor  flatten  his  nose,  nor  give 
his  countenance  that  peculiar  hideous  expression  of  half  fierceness 
and  half  cunning. 

"Hullo!"  he  called,  as  Way,  followed  by  a  luggage -bearing  mn- 
chacho,  came  up  the  same  path  which  he  had  trod  six  months  earlier. 

Way  paused.  Bannister  lazily  rolled  a  cigarette,  took  a  whifT, 
and  eyed  Way  questioningly. 

"A  little  otT  the  regular  beat,  ain't  you?"  he  finally  remarked. 

"Yes,"  Way  admitted.  "]\Iy  people  sent  me  up  here  to  introduce 
some  .American  farming  implements." 

Bannister  laughed.  "More  money  in  tobacco  or  cutlery,"  he 
said.  "Only  you  may  git  one  of  your  own  knives  between  the  ribs 
if  you  ain't  careful." 

"The  Governor-General  assured  me  that  this  country  was  as  safe 
as  Fifth  Avenue,"  Way  replied. 

"Things  happen  up  in  the  hills  that  the  Governor  don't  ever  hear 
of.  For  instance,  I've  been  up  here  six  months,  and  he's  still  got  his 
johnnies  keeping  an  eye  on  some  gin  shop  down  ^Manila  way,  'specting 
me  to  walk  out  some  day." 

"You  seem  safe  enough,"  Way  argued. 

"Oh,  yes,  I'm  safe  enough,"  Bannister  admitted.  "You  see,  they 
think  I'm  an  Aguinaldo  man,  though  I  says  to  myself,  to  hell  with 
Aggie  and  all  the  rest  of  'em.  I'm  up  here  'cause  it  suits  me.  Dow'n 
there,  I  was  Private  Bannister,  up  here  I'm  Senor  Bannister,  as  good 
a  man  as  any  in  this  dinky  little  luego,  an'  a  darned  sight  better  than 
most.  'Sides  I've  married  and  settled  down.  I've  got  a  mujer  inside 
here." 


NARRATIVE  6oi 

Way  glanced  at  the  group  of  ugly  little  black  men  who  had  crowded 
around,  eying  him  suspiciously,  and  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Oh,  she's  a  little  different  from  the  common  run  of  these  little 
devils,"  Bannister  assured  him.  "Fact  is,  she's  more  Spanish  than 
anything  else,  I  reckon.  Still,  she's  got  a  strain  of  something  else 
in  her.  You  can  see  her  in  a  minute.  Ven  aca,  querida  mia,^'  he 
called  over  his  shoulder. 

Presently  a  woman  came  out  of  the  hut.  She  glanced  at  Bannis- 
ter and  then  turned  her  eyes  on  Way  and  regarded  him  steadily, 
though  without  speaking.  She  was  dressed  much  as  Bannister,  the 
only  difference  being  that  the  native  saya  took  the  place  of  breeches. 

Way's  first  impression  was  that  she  was  Spanish,  tanned  a  shade 
darker  than  usual  by  the  tropical  sun,  and  he  could  not  suppress  a 
momentary  gleam  of  admiration  for  her  splendid  physical  develop- 
ment. Then  he  noted  the  yellowness  of  her  palm,  which  showed 
Tagal  blood,  and  in  spite  of  her  comeliness  of  face  and  the  unques- 
tioned beauty  of  her  large,  brown  eyes,  he  cast  a  glance,  half  of  pity, 
half  of  condemnation,  at  Bannister.  There  were  unnumbered  cen- 
turies of  Caucasian  purity  of  race  behind  the  glance,  and  Bannister, 
without  understanding  why,  stirred  uneasily  under  it. 

The  woman  turned  and  looked  at  Bannister  anxiously,  and  Way 
noted  the  flash  of  passionate  solicitude  which  gleamed  from  her  eyes. 

"Amigo,^'  said  Bannister  quietly,  and  she  turned  and  re-entered 
the  hut. 

During  the  next  two  months.  Way  and  Bannister  saw  much  of  each 
other.  Way,  with  his  muchacho  as  man  of  all  work,  established  him- 
self in  a  deserted,  rice-straw  bungalow  and  Bannister  soon  got  into 
the  custom  of  dropping  in  on  him  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  to  sit, 
rolling  cigarettes  and  talking. 

Way  never  visited  Bannister  in  his  hut,  though  he  occasionally 
passed  his  mujer  in  the  various  paths  which  ran  out  from  the  village, 
and  he  soon  became  vaguely  conscious  that  she  regarded  him  with 
both  distrust  and  dislike.  He  had  no  means  of  knowing  that  the  one 
was  caused  by  the  girl's  native  distrust  of  Americans,  which  even  her 
relations  with  Bannister  had  not  entirely  removed,  or  rather,  had 
caused  her  to  view  all  Americans  as  Bannister's  natural  enemies, 
since  they  were  the  only  ones  whom  he  seemed  to  fear,  and  the  other, 
by  her  jealousy  of  the  time  Bannister  spent  in  his  company. 

One  day,  a  squad  of  American  soldiers  appeared  suddenly  in  the 
village  and  Bannister  barely  had  time  to  escape  by  one  of  the  footpaths 

LIBRARY 

STATE  TEACHERS  Cf^L'EGE 
SA.iTA  BARBARA.  CALiFCRNIA 

/..o./..*.Y^ 


6o2  APP/:.\DIX.     STIDEXT   THEMES 

which  led  farther  up  into  the  mountains.  Way  said  nothing  of  Ban- 
nister's presence,  not  considering  it  any  of  his  affair,  and  the  squad 
soon  departed,  not.  however,  before  the  sergeant  had  given  V\'ay  a 
piece  of  advice. 

"  Better  pack  your  things  and  come  along  with  us,"  he  said. 
'■'J'here's  no  telling  what  these  niggers  may  do  at  any  time,  and  it 
ain't  safe  for  one  white  man  to  be  too  far  away  from  another  in  these 
hills." 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'm  safe  enough,"  Way  replied. 

"You  can't  tell,"  the  sergeant  insisted.  "If  they  get  you  at  all, 
it'll  be  when  you  least  expect  it.  Look  at  that  wench  out  there, 
now."  he  added,  pointing  to  where  a  woman  stood  eying  them  from 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street.  "She's  up  to  some  devilment,  I'll 
bet  my  head.     See  that  look  in  her  eyes." 

Way  glanced  across  the  street,  and  saw  Bannister's  viujcr  gazing 
at  them  with  a  mingled  expression  of  such  fear  and  hatred  that  he  was 
half  inclined  to  take  the  sergeant's  advice. 

Instead,  he  laughed  at  himself  for  a  fool,  and  that  iiight.  Bannister 
not  having  returned,  he  put  on  his  hat  and  started  out  for  a  stroll. 
He  had  gone  probably  half  a  mile,  and  was  just  rounding  a  large 
boulder,  which  lay  by  the  side  of  liis  path,  when  suddenly  there  was 
a  swish,  and  something  flew  past  him,  sticking  into  a  lawaan  tree  at 
his  side.  He  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  large,  native  knife, 
or  dagger,  which  he  remembered  having  seen  Bannister  using  on  sev- 
eral occasions. 

"The  treacherous  little  devil,"  he  muttered. 

The  next  day  Bannister  returned,  and  Way  for  the  first  time  called 
around  to  see  him  at  his  hut. 

"I  w'ish  you  would  assure  that  woman  of  yours  that  I'm  your  very 
best  friend."  he  said. 

"VMiy?"  Bannister  asked. 

In  reply.  Way  handed  him  the  knife.     "  She  threw  it,"  he  explained. 

Bannister  whistled.  "She  thought  you  peached  on  me,"  he  said. 
"I'll  see  that  it  doesn't  happen  again.  So  she  was  ready  to  scrap 
for  me?-""  he  mused.  "Well,  I  reckon  it  was  a  good  thing  after  all 
that  we  hitched  up." 

"It  may  be  a  good  thing  for  you,  all  right,"  W^ay  remarked,  "but 
it  would  have  been  deucedly  uncomfortable  for  me,  if  her  aim  had 
been  a  little  better." 

And  after  that,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  there  were  no  further  signs 
of  hostility.  Way  took  his  afternoon  exercises  before  dark. 


NARRATIVE  603 

Way  and  Bannister  were  sitting  in  front  of  Way's  bungalow  one 
night  a  week  later,  smoking.  The  night  was  dark.  The  moon  had 
not  yet  risen,  it  had  rained  earher  in  the  afternoon,  and,  contrary  to 
the  usual  order  of  things,  the  clouds  had  not  disappeared  at  sunset, 
but  still  hung  on,  seemingly  playing  a  game  of  hide  and  seek  with 
the  bright,  southern  stars,  which  would  otherwise  have  relieved  the 
gloom.  Way  was  whistling  softly  to  himself  between  puffs ;  Bannis- 
ter was  busily  rolling  cigarettes,  lighting  them,  and  throwing  them 
away. 

"Bannister,"  Way  suddenly  asked,  "were  you  ever  homesick?" 

Bannister  shook  his  head.  "Never  had  a  home,"  he  replied.  "I 
sold  papers  at  five,  was  a  bootblack  until  I  was  fifteen,  and  then  I 
worked  in  a  factory  until  two  and  a  half  years  ago,  when  I  joined  the 
army." 

"Don't  you  ever  expect  to  go  back  to  the  States  ?  "  Way  continued. 

Again  Bannister  shook  his  head.  "What's  the  use?"  he  asked. 
"There's  nobody  there  that  gives  a  continental  for  me.  Out  here 
there's  a  woman  who  —  well,  you  know  how  she  feels,  and  I  reckon 
I  think  just  about  as  much  of  her  as  I  ever  will  of  anybody.  I'm  a 
shiftless  sort  of  cuss  and  this  lazy  life  suits  me  to  a  showdown.  What's 
the  use  of  going  back?" 

"I  wouldn't  like  this  sort  of  thing  long,"  Way  said. 

"'Tain't  everybody  that's  suited  for  it,"  Bannister  replied. 
"There's  a  fellow  named  Goodman  about  fifteen  miles  over  on  the 
other  side  of  the  mountain  that  ought  to  be  back  in  the  States  bossing 
a  section  gang.  He's  by  his  lonesome,  like  you,  trying  to  establish 
a  market  among  these  niggers  for  something  God  Almighty  never 
intended  them  to  have,  and  he's  going  about  it  in  a  mighty  risky  way. 
He  beat  his  muchacho  not  long  ago  because  he  found  'im  taking  a 
siesta  in  the  evening.  And  he's  done  other  things  they  don't  under- 
stand out  here.  Some  day  he'll  git  a  knife  in  his  back,  or  something 
worse." 

Way  arose  and  stretched  himself,  preparatory  to  going  inside. 
"I  suppose  you'd  play  a  hands-off  game  in  case  of  any  trouble  up 
here,"  he  remarked  curiously. 

Bannister  nodded.  "Only  thing  I  could  do,"  he  said.  "I  can't 
go  back  there,"  pointing  out  towards  the  coast,  "so  I've  got  to  stay 
here,  and  the  only  safe  way  to  stay  up  here  is  not  to  get  mixed  up 
with  any  monkey  business." 

Way  turned,  and  as  he  did  so,  his  muchacho  came  out  of  the  house, 


6o4  APPENDIX.    STUDENT  THEMES 

gesticulating  excitedly.  A  bloody  Americano  had  just  slipped  into 
the  bungalow  by  the  back  way  and  wished  to  speak  to  the  Senor  at 
once.  The  boy  was  trembling.  Way  had  picked  him  up  in  Manila, 
and  it  had  only  been  after  much  hesitation  that  he  had  consented  to 
follow  him  up  among  the  hillsmen,  of  whom  he  lived  in  daily  terror. 

Way  turned  and  entered  the  bungalow.  The  man  who  awaited 
him  was  Cioodman  and  he  had  traveled  fifteen  miles  through  the 
broken  country-  in  three  hours.  His  clothes  were  torn  almost  to 
shreds  by  the  undergrowth,  his  feet  were  bleeding  where  the  sharp 
rocks  had  cut  through  his  shoes,  and  his  right  shoulder  had  been  slit 
half  way  across  with  a  knife. 

There  had  been  trouble.  Goodman  could  not  tell  just  how  it  had 
happened.  He  only  knew  that  he  had  been  returning  from  a  short 
trip  up  in  the  mountains  and  had  got  into  a  narrow  ravine,  \vhen  a  stone 
had  dropped  from  overhead,  crushing  his  horse  and  almost  pinning 
him  under  it.  By  the  time  he  had  got  on  his  feet,  he  had  seen  a  horde 
of  little  black  imps  advancing  on  him  from  one  end  of  the  ravine,  and 
had  turned  and  fled.  One  of  them  had  got  near  enough  to  stick  a  knife 
into  his  shoulder,  but  a  shot  from  his  revolver  had  sent  him  hurtling 
down  the  mountain  side,  and  he  had  made  his  escape.  Since  then, 
he  had  traveled  as  fast  as  terror  and  his  own  legs  could  carry  him, 
hoping  to  gain  protection  at  Manito  until  he  could  get  through  to  an 
American  garrison.  He  was  still  panting  and  told  his  story  between 
huge  draughts  of  water,  which  Way  had  motioned  his  muchacho  to 
bring  him. 

"Do  you  think  the  hillsmen  know  which  way  you  were  headed?" 
Way  asked. 

"They'll  track  'im  down,"  said  Bannister,  who  had  followed  Way 
in.  "The  httle  devils  know  their  business  and  they  ain't  going  to 
let  him  git  away  if  they  can  help  it,  after  going  as  far  as  they  have." 

As  though  in  confirmation  of  this,  there  was  a  patter  of  bare  feet 
outside,  and  a  brown  figure  appeared  in  the  doorway.  Way  reached 
for  a  revolver  which  lay  on  the  table  before  him,  but  Bannister  seized 
his  arm. 

''Qtierida  miaj'  he  said,  and  Way  sat  down. 

The  woman  entered,  glanced  at  the  three  men  and  burst  into  an 
excited  flow  of  dialect  Spanish,  which  neither  Way  nor  Goodman 
could  follow.  However,  her  gestures  were  sufficient.  Seizing  Ban- 
nister by  the  arm,  and  motioning  the  others  away  with  a  shower  of 
maledictions,  she  started  towards  the  door,  pleading  and  pulling. 


NARRATIVE  605 

Presently  Bannister  paused  and  turned  to  Way.  "The  niggers 
know  where  he  is,"  he  said,  pointing  to  Goodman,  "and  they'll  be 
here  after  'im  mighty  quick.  Maybe  if  you'll  leave  'im  they'll  be 
satisfied  with  fixing  him,  and  I  can  smuggle  you  out  in  a  day  or  two. 
I'll  risk  that  much." 

Way  shook  his  head.       We'll  fight  it  out  together,"  he  said. 

"Come  on,  then,"  said  Bannister  to  the  woman,  and  they  started 
towards  the  door. 

Just  then,  there  was  a  crash  of  broken  glass  at  their  backs,  a  black, 
flat-nosed  face  appeared  for  a  moment  in  the  window  frame,  and  Way 
wheeled  in  time  to  receive  a  bolo  thrust  in  the  thigh.  At  the  same 
time,  another  figure  appeared  in  the  doorway,  with  uplifted  bolo, 
aimed  at  the  fallen  man. 

Bannister  roughly  shook  his  arm  free  from  the  clinging  woman 
and  his  right  fist  shot  out.  With  a  squeak  of  rage,  the  figure  fell 
back  and  disappeared  into  the  night. 

"You  black-hearted  little  devils,"  Bannister  shouted,  slamming 
the  door  shut  and  barricading  it,  "I'll  show  you  how  to  fight  a  white 
man's  fight." 

Way  had  already  recovered  himself  sufficiently  to  blow  out  the 
light  and  hobble  to  one  of  the  windows  ;  Goodman,  barricaded  behind 
an  old  chest,  covered  the  other.  Way's  muchacho  lay  on  the  floor, 
in  an  agony  of  terror.  The  woman  had  staggered  into  a  corner  and 
sat  gazing  straight  to  the  front  with  unseeing  eyes.  She  knew  what 
awaited  them. 

Everything  became  suddenly  quiet,  but  Bannister  knew  that  some- 
where out  in  the  blackness  a  hundred  cunning  little  eyes  were  watch- 
ing the  bungalow  for  a  chance  to  strike. 

It  came  soon.  Goodman,  hearing  a  noise  under  his  window,  raised 
up  to  fire,  and  received  a  thrust  in  the  breast.  Bannister  sprang  to 
the  window  and  emptied  his  gun  at  a  scurrying  mass  of  black  figures. 
Way's  gun  spoke  for  a  few  minutes,  when  it  likewise  ceased,  and  Ban- 
nister turned  to  find  himself  surrounded  by  a  score  of  twisting,  squirm- 
ing little  men. 

First  with  the  butt  of  his  revolver,  and  when  that  was  broken,  with 
his  bare  fist,  he  struck  out  until  a  pair  of  scrawny  brown  arms  clasped 
him  around  the  legs,  and  he  went  down. 

"Adioso,  querida  mia,"  he  muttered,  as  the  knives  flashed  over 
him. 


APPENDIX    II:     EXPOSITION  AND   ARGUMENT 


(Classified  as  to  Topics) 
I.   Agriculture. 

Middle  and  Lower  Classes  in  England  under  the  Stuarts 
The  Realm  of  the  Commonplace 
Is  Agriculture  Declining?     . 
Organization  of  Farmers 
II.    Economics. 

The  Esthetic  Value  of  Efficiency 
The  Case  against  the  Single  Tax 
Speech  on  Old-Age  Pensions 
Popular  Control  of  National  Wealth 
Is  Agriculture  Declining  ?     . 
Organization  of  Farmers 
The  Organization  of  Labor 

III.  Education. 

The  Aim  of  a  University  Education 
Self-Cultivation  in  English  . 
The  Social  Value  of  the  College-Bred 
The  Intellectual  Powers  of  Woman 

IV.  Engineering. 

Mine  Helmets 

A  Mechanical  Dishwasher    . 
How  the  Panama  Locks  are  Operated 
The  iF^sthetic  Value  of  Efficiency 
Wireless  in  Railroad  Service 
The  Mathematician  and  the  Engineer 
V.  History. 

Beginning  of  Cabinet  Government 

The  Middle  and  Lower  Classes  in  England  under  the 

Stuarts      ..... 
Lincoln  as  More  than  an  American 
Francis  Parkman 
Goldwin  Smith     .... 
The  Monroe  Doctrine 

607 


99 
i6s 

324 
327 

58 
239 
257 
296 

324 
327 
330 

15 
130 

137 
276 

43 
46 
47 
S8 
228 
291 

55 

99 
113 
145 
149 
306 


6o8        APPEXDIX   II:    EX  POSIT  lOX   AND  ARGUMENT 


\'I.    Literature. 

Slang 

Familiar  Style      .... 
Self-Cultivation  in  English  . 
Francis  Parkman 
Goldwin  Smith     .... 
Jane  Austen's  "Emma" 
On  the  Taller        .... 
The  \\'averley  Novels  . 
Mark  Twain         .... 
\T1.   Politics  and  Government. 

Socialism      ..... 
House  of  Representatives     . 
Beginning  of  Cabinet  Government 
Inaugural  Address 
A  \'icious  Proposal 
The  Nation's  Pledge    . 
Absorption  of  the  Indian 
Nationalism  and  Peace 
The  Case  Against  the  Single  Tax 
Council  Government  vs.  Mayor  Government 
Speech  on  Old-Age  Pensions 
A  Defence  of  the  House  of  Lords 
Popular  Control  of  National  Wealth 
The  Monroe  Doctrine  . 
State  Control  and  the  Individual 
Direct  Presidential  Nominations 
VIII.    Science. 

What  is  Thought  ? 
Feeding  Brown  Pelicans 
The  Formation  of  Vowels     . 
Mine  Helmets 
The  Honey  Bee    . 
On  the  Physical  Basis  of  Life 
Wireless  in  Railroad  Service 
Three  Hypotheses  respecting  the  History  of  Nature 
The  Mathematician  and  the  Engineer 
IX.   Social  Forces. 

The  .'Esthetic  Value  of  Efficiency 
Social  \'alue  of  the  College-Bred  . 
Mark  Twain         .... 


APPENDIX  II:    DESCRIPTION 


609 


X. 


Absorption  of  the  Indian 
Nationalism  and  Peace 
Intellectual  Powers  of  Woman 
Address  at  Swarthmore  College 
Address  at  Gettysburg 
Sports  and  Recreation. 
On  Making  Camp 

English  and  American  Sportsmanship 
The  Realm  of  the  Commonplace 
An  Apology  for  Idlers 


228 
230 
276 
301 
304 

18 
124 
165 
173 


APPENDIX   II:    DESCRIPTION 

{Classified  as  to  Technical  Elements) 


A.  Fundamental  Image. 

Cape  Cod       .         .         .         .         . 
Scenery  of  the  Lakes 

B.  Dominant  Tone  or  Characteristic. 

Sunrise  at  Port-of-Spain 

In  the  Sahel  .... 

In  Front  of  the  Royal  Exchange 

An  Accountant 

Dickens  Portraits 

C.  Point  of  View. 
{A)   Fixed. 

Cloud  Effects 
Scenery  of  the  Lakes 
An  Indian  Village  . 
Landor's  Cottage   .   -     .     ' 

(B)  Moving. 

Valparaiso 

A  Doctor's  Home  .    "    . 

St.  Mark's      .        .        .      ' 

(C)  Abstract. 

The  Upper  Mississippi  . 
D.    Subjective  Element  Dominant. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Garden 
In  Front  of  the  Royal  Exchange 
Kusa-Hibari 


352 
361 

340 
354 
369 
405 
408 


342 
361 
368 
379 

366 

377 
383 

353 

360 
369 
394 


6io 


APPENDIX   II:    DESCRIPTION 


BudTildcn            .        .                 .         . 

PAGE 

.        4IJ 

Ou  the  Wind  at  Night   .         .         .         - 

.        420 

Narrative  Method. 

In  the  Sahel 

•     354 

The  Ancient  Palace  of  Jeypore 

.         .     381 

Expository  Element  Dominant. 

Cape  Cod               

•     352 

English  Cottages           .... 

.     372 

Exposition  Hall  and  Bridge-Shop 

.     375 

Second-Story  Bungalow  Apartments     . 

•     376 

NOTES 

EXPOSITION 

DEFINITIONS 

Definition  is  not  an  independent  form  of  writing,  but  is  a  fundamental 
element  in  exposition.  On  the  precision  with  which  we  use  our  words 
depends  our  success  in  conveying  our  ideas.  Students  will  do  well  to  follow 
the  advice  of  Professor  Palmer  (see  p.  132),  and  attempt  definitions  even  of 
the  common  words  they  use,  because  "  inaccuracy  will  not  stand  up  against 
the  habit  of  definition."  A  striking  illustration  of  the  need  of  such  practice 
may  be  found  in  the  confusion,  pomted  out  by  Godkin,  resulting  from  the 
loose  employment  of  the  familiar  word  "  truth  "  (see  p.  251). 

Slang.  Consult  the  definition  of  this  word  in  the  dictionary.  The 
present  paragraph  is  an  attempt  to  set  forth  the  meaning  with  greater  ful- 
ness and  accuracy.  This  is  done  by  pointing  out  distinctions  and  making 
comparisons  with  similar  ideas.  Compare  Hazlitt's  remarks  on  slang  (p.  16), 
where  the  explanation  is  aided  by  an  example. 

Analysis  of  the  paragraph  :  —  The  opening  sentence  is  purely  introductory 
and  is  followed  by  the  topic  sentence,  which  mentions  two  characteristics  of 
slang.  The  first  of  these  characteristics  is  discussed  in  the  next  two  sen- 
tences, while  to  the  analysis  of  the  other  the  rest  of  the  paragraph  is  devoted 
up  to  the  last  sentence.  It  should  be  observed  that  the  concluding  sentence, 
while  it  sums  up  the  two  elements  which  have  been  discussed,  at  the  same 
time  contributes  to  the  progressive  development  of  the  idea.  The  para- 
graph is  notable  for  the  extremely  close  cohesion  of  its  parts.  Each  sentence 
develops  so  directly  out  of  the  one  preceding  that  there  is  no  need  of  transi- 
tional conjunctions,  the  connection  being  efTected  by  the  carrying  over  of 
some  word  or  phrase  from  one  sentence  to  another.  Only  in  one  instance 
is  it  necessary  to  form  a  bridge  over  an  intervening  sentence,  and  that  is 
contrived  by  the  use  of  the  balancing  pronouns  "  the  first  "  and  "  the  other." 

Define  Metabolism,  Soil  fertility,  Voltage,  Evolution,  Lyric  poetry, 
Loyalty,  Tact,  Religion,  Success. 

What  is  Thought?  Professor  Dewey  wishes  to  prepare  his  readers  for 
a  discussion  of  the  thinking  process ;  his  first  aim,  therefore,  is  to  arrive  at 
a  strict  definition  of  the  word  "  thought."  He  docs  so  by  clearing  away  the 
looser  senses  in  which  the  word  is  commonly  employed,  progressing  from  the 
general  to  the  more  and  more  restricted  meanings.     The  mode  of  amplifica- 

611 


6i2  NOTES 

tion  is  more  ilabonite  llian  in  tlie  clcfinilion  of  slang,  being  distinguished  by 
more  leisurely  repetition,  illustration,  and  even  anecdote. 

What  is  the  relation  oi  the  first  [mragraph  to  the  rest  of  the  composition? 
Notice  the  use  of  pointing  sentences,  of  topic  sentences,  and  of  transitions 
from  section  to  section.  What  is  the  force  of  the  last  sentence?  Can  the 
individual  sections  be  treated  as  separate  paragrajjlis? 

3.  consequence.  Note  the  force  with  which  this  word  is  used  in  relation 
to  the  following  "  consecutive." 

4.  credence  —  credit.     Are  these  words  happily  contrasted? 

5.  prejudices,  that  is,  prejudgments.      Are  these  words  really  equivalent? 
Classify  the  uses  of  think  in  the  following  sentences :  "  And  I  must  think, 

do  all  I  can,  that  there  is  pleasure  there."  "  We  gaze  —  nor  grieve  to  think 
that  we  must  die."  "  Why  tloink  of  anything  but  present  good?  "  "  How 
far  dost  thou  excel?  —  No  thought  can  think  nor  tongue  of  mortals  tell." 
"  I  should  not  see  the  sandy  hour-glass  run,  but  I  should  think  of  shallows 
and  of  flats."  "  Those  that  think  must  govern  those  that  toil."  "  He  that 
is  giddy  thinks  the  world  turns  round."  "  I  verily  did  think  that  her  old 
gloves  were  on,  but  'twas  her  hands."  "  Of  many  good  I  think  hhn  best. 
...  I  have  no  reason  but  a  woman's  reason ;  I  think  him  so  because  I 
think  him  so."  "  What  joy  is  joy  if  Silvia  be  not  by?  Unless  it  be  to  think 
that  she  is  by."  "  I  did  never  think  to  marry."  "  What  his  heart  thinks 
his  tongue  speaks."  "  Which  makes  me  think  that  this  Antonio,  being  the 
boon  lover  of  vay  lord,  must  needs  be  like  my  lord." 

Distinguish  the  looser  and  the  stricter  uses  of  words  like  judge,  fear,  sensa- 
tion, notion,  idea,  taste,  nature. 

Socialism.  There  are  many  groups  of  words  and  ideas  which  have 
some  element  in  common,  though  in  their  total  significance  they  may  be 
sharply  distinct  or  even  opposed.  People  are  prone  to  seize  upon  the  feature 
which  particularly  interests  themselves  to  the  utter  neglect  of  the  other 
elements.  Thus  to  John  Bull  every  visitor  from  the  continent  is  a  "  for- 
eigner "  rather  than  a  Turk  or  a  Spaniard,  and  for  the  Catholic  every  person 
outside  the  pale  of  his  church  is  a  non-believer,  be  he  Protestant,  Jew,  or 
infidel.  Similarly,  the  word  "  sociahsm  "  is  popularly  confused  with  a 
number  of  other  "  isms  "  which  have  the  characteristic  in  common  of  being 
revolutionary  and  quite  repugnant  to  the  Anglo-Saxon  sense  of  the  practical. 
In  such  a  case,  the  direct  explanation  of  the  term,  which  Professor  Cross 
supplies  in  his  first  two  paragraphs,  would  not  serve  to  produce  a  sufficiently 
emphatic  impression,  and  it  is  therefore  necessary  to  discriminate  the  ideals 
of  socialism  from  other  reforming  and  revolutionary'  schemes. 

8.  laissez-faire.  This  word  refers  to  the  principle  that  government  should 
not  interfere  with  the  action  of  individuals,  especially  in  industrial  affairs. 

9.  claim.     Do  you  approve  this  use  of  the  word? 

11.  "  he  "  towns  and  "  she  "  towns.  The  condition  referred  to  in  this 
phrase  is  the  result  of  the  westward  migration  of  the  men,  which  left  the 
women  to  their  own  economic  resources  in  the  East. 


NOTES  613 

12.  Bellamy  or  Nationalist  movement.  Edward  Bellamy'  (1850-1898) 
was  the  author  of  a  famous  novel  "  Looking  Backward,  2000-1887,"  Jn 
which  he  set  forth  his  dream  of  a  communistic  state.  For  the  purpose  of 
propagating  his  ideas  a  Nationalist  party  was  organized,  which,  however, 
gained  no  political  hold. 

13.  Single  Tax.     Compare  the  statement  on  this  point  on  p.  239. 

Does  the  passage  come  to  an  effective  conclusion?  Distinguish 
among  the  members  of  the  following  series :  atheism,  agnosticism,  infidelity, 
paganism,  idolatry,  heathenism ;  savage,  barbarous,  primitive ;  queer, 
strange,  odd,  funny,  peculiar;  familiar,  homely,  common,  commonplace, 
ordinary,  simple,  plain ;  education,  culture,  enlightenment,  humanism ; 
real,  actual,  natural ;  character  and  personality ;  truth  and  fact ;  news  and 
gossip ;   learning  and  knowledge ;   happiness  and  contentment. 

On  Familiar  Style.  This  is  an  example  of  informal  definition  which 
aims  not  merely  to  explain  the  meaning  of  a  term  but  to  interpret  it  with  an 
individual  coloring.     The  information  may  be  suffused  in  an  emotional  glow 

or   subordinated    to   some   purpose   of    deeper   instruction. Compare 

Hazlitt's  precepts  with  those  given  by  Professor  Palmer  in  "  Self-Cultivation 
in  English  "  (pp.  130-31).  Analyze  the  diction  in  this  passage  for  its  agree- 
ment with  the  theory.  Is  this  a  weU-constructed  paragraph  ?  Do  the  ideas 
develop  in  regular  progression? 

15.  Dr.  Johnson's  Style.  Samuel  Johnson  (i 709-1 784),  the  great  critic 
and  essayist  and  author  of  the  first  important  English  dictionary,  employed 
an  excessive  number  of  many-syllabled  words  of  Latin  derivation. 

"  tall,  opaque  words  "  taken  from  the  "first  row  of  the  rubric."  This 
passage  illustrates  Hazlitt's  eccentric  habits  in  the  use  of  quotations.  In 
the  first  phrase,  it  has  been  conjectured,  he  is  borrowing  from  an  earlier  paper 
of  his  own  in  which  he  speaks  of  critics  who  have  a  knack  "  of  putting  a 
parcel  of  tall  opaque  words  before  them,  to  blind  the  eyes  of  their  readers,  and 
hoodwink  their  own  understanding."  (See  Hazlitt's  Collected  Works,  cd. 
Glover  and  Waller,  VHI,  257.)  The  second  quotation  is  probably  adapted 
from  "  Hamlet,"  Act  ii.  Scene  2  :  "  The  first  row  of  the  pious  chanson  will 
show  you  more."     For  quotation  as  an  element  of  style  see  note  to  p.  183. 

16.  cum  grano  salts.  Is  this  a  violation  of  Hazlitt's  own  advice  about  the 
use  of  foreign  circumlocutions? 

Examine  a  news  narrative,  the  account  of  a  baseball  game  or  other  athletic 
event,  a  speech  in  the  Congressional  Record,  a  sermon,  an  article  in  a  tech- 
nical journal,  one  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  and  apply  to  them  Hazhtt's 
tests  for  style.  Apply  the  test  also  to  Stewart  Edward  White's  "  On  Making 
Camp,"  p.  18,  and  to  "  Popular  Control  of  National  Wealth,"  p.  296. 

The  Aim  of  a  University  Education.  This  may  be  called  an  informal 
definition  because  Newman  explains  what  the  word  "  practical  "  as  apjilied 
to  education  means  to  him.  Compare  the  substance  of  this  with  William 
James's  essay,  "  The  Social  Value  of  the  College  Bred  "  (p.  85)  and  with 
President   Wilson's  Swarthmore  Address  (p.  301).     Do  you  find   them  in 


6 14  NOTES 

harmony  or  at  variance  ?  How  is  your  own  course  adapted  to  the  aim  here 
indicated? 

The  structure  of  this  paragraph  and  the  composition  of  its  sentences  will 
repay  the  most  careful  analysis.  It  opens  with  an  emphatic  topic  sentence 
and  it  closes  on  the  same  note,  admiral)ly  illustrating  Professor  Barrett 
Wendell's  formula  for  testing  mass  or  emphasis,  viz. :  "  The  chief  parts  of 
ever^-  composition  should  be  so  placed  as  readily  to  catch  the  eye.  .  .  . 
Broadly  speaking,  the  most  readily  visible  parts  of  a  composition  are  the 
beginning  and  end."  {English  Composilion,  pp.  32-33.)  The  chief  device 
for  obtaining  unity  is  parallelism.  Note  how  imperceptibly  one  series  of 
parallel  sentences  fades  into  another  series  having  a  dilTerent  subject. 

The  passiige  should  be  studied  for  the  rhythmic  cadence  of  its  sentences. 
The  rhythm  of  prose  does  not  fall  under  any  mechanical  rules.  Its  harmony 
is  more  subtle  than  that  of  poetry  and  is  produced  by  the  proportioning  of 
stress  groups  in  the  members  of  the  sentence.  Some  attempts  have  re- 
cently been  made  to  formulate  rules  governing  prose  rhythm,  notably  in 
Professor  Oliver  Elton's  essay  on  English  Prose  Numbers  ("  Essays  and 
Studies  by  Members  of  the  English  Association,"  \'ol.  IV),  and  in  Pro- 
fessor Saintsbur\''s  "  History  of  English  Prose  Rhythm."  Stevenson's  re- 
marks on  this  subject  are  quoted  in  a  note  to  p.  173.  All  the  sentences 
in  the  present  passage,  except  the  first  and  last,  are  balanced  or  have  some 
internal  balance.  But  note  how  monotony  is  avoided  by  varying  the 
number  of  members  in  the  sentence,  by  balancing  with  members  of  un- 
equal length,  by  inversion  of  corresponding  phrases,  or  by  the  attaching  of 
a  loose  clause  to  interrupt  uniformity  of  cadence.  A  variety  of  rhythmic 
eflFects  is  represented  in  the  passages  of  Hazlitt,  Ruskin,  Stevenson,  and 
Woodberry  which  will  be  noticed  in  the  appropriate  places. 

Topics:  Scholarship,  The  practical  politician,  Heroism,  College  life,  Pub- 
lic spirit,  The  self-made  man,  A  good  fellow. 

EXPLANATIONS   OF  MECHANISMS  AND   PROCESSES 

To  write  an  explanation  of  a  mechanism  or  a  process  may  be  one  of  the 
simplest  tasks  in  expository,  if  not  in  all,  composition.  In  telling  how  to  do 
or  make  something,  if  one  knows  how  the  thing  is  done,  one  need  but 
set  forth  in  orderly  fashion  the  several  steps  in  the  actual  process.  But  the 
matter  is  not  quite  simple,  either;  for  the  steps  may  perhaps  better  be 
taken  in  one  order  than  in  another;  the  number  of  details  may  be 
complex  and  require  careful  arranging  and  grouping ;  the  hearer  or  reader 
is  likeh'  to  be  less  conversant  with  such  operations  than  the  one  who  is 
explaining  them  and  may  therefore  make  necessary  a  skilful  adaptation  to 
his  comprehension.  Sometimes  the  nature  of  the  subjects  or  the  powers 
of  the  reader  —  or  even  of  the  writer  —  will  make  it  desirable  to  give  ex- 
plicit directions  how  to  do  a  thing,  rather  than  to  tell  how  it  is  done ;  in 
other  cases  it  is  advisable  to  take  the  reader  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were  present 


NOTES  615 

in  person,  and  lead  him  through  the  subject,  pointing  out  the  details  and 
relating  them  to  each  other.  Again,  it  may  be  best  to  use  the  narrative  form. 
Stewart  Edward  White,  in  "  On  Making  Camp,"  shows  that  the  narrative 
method  of  explanation  is  not  confined  to  kindergarten  instruction.  It  will 
often  prove  the  best  means  of  introducing  liveliness  and  interest  in  such  com- 
jjosition. 

On  Making  Camp.  Study  the  plan  of  this  specimen.  Are  the  details 
v/ell  arranged?  well  grouped?  Notice  that  Dick  is  introduced  both  to 
add  an  element  of  interest  and  to  give  purpose  to  the  detailed  explanation. 
How,  in  detail,  is  interest  maintained  and  heightened  ?  Is  the  paragraphing 
appropriate?  Characterize  the  tone.  What  can  you  say  of  the  diction? 
There  are  few  things  so  dreary  as  the  usual  student  theme  on  camp  expe- 
rience. Consider  carefully  aU  the  ways  by  which  such  dreariness  is  avoided 
in  this  account. 

19.  Rustle  sufficient  dry  wood;  gathered  entomological  specimens;  sit  up 
and  pay  attention.  Would  Hazlitt  have  approved  these  expressions?  (see 
pp.  14  ff.). 

22.  You'd  better.  Why,  if  at  all,  are  this  and  similar  contractions  per- 
missible ? 

23.  They  should  converge,  etc.  What  would  be  the  effect  of  such  con- 
vergence on  the  size  of  utensils  ? 

If  your  vicinity,  etc.  Does  the  writer  say  what  he  means?  Rewrite 
the  sentence. 

Concept.     Is  this  word  aptly  used?     Why? 

24.  Only  in  the  woods,  etc.  Comment  on  the  use  of  only.  Explain  the 
construction  of  shelter  your  match  all  yon  know  how. 

Storybooks,  etc.  —  some  of  the  "  Leatherstocking  Tales,"  for  instance. 

fS5.   Petering  out;  do  the  anathema.     Find  other  ways  to  express  the  ideas. 

Sort  of  a  spot.     Is  this  expression  in  accordance  with  good  use  ? 

Topics:  How  to  handle  a  canoe,  How  to  play  second  base,  How  to  prepare 
a  field  for  planting  corn,  How  to  grow  tobacco,  How  to  make  ice-cream. 
How  to  make  bread.  How  to  run  the  half-mile.  How  to  manage  a  picnic. 
How  to  break  a  horse,  How  to  care  for  an  automobile.  How  to  sail  a  boat. 
How  to  lay  out  a  vegetable  garden.  How  to  catch  trout. 

Breeding  Brown  Pelicans.  Notice  the  easy,  informal  tone  of  this 
selection.  How  is  it  produced?  What  might  be  its  purpose,  considering 
the  subject  matter?     Notice  the  use  made  of  the  spectator. 

28.   In  place  of  helpkss  quiescence,  etc.     Is  this  an  idiomatic  sentence  ? 

Topics:  Breeding  game  chickens,  Raising  squabs,  The  feeding  habits  of 
squirrels. 

How  Vowels  are  Formed.  Notice  the  effective  use  of  analogy,  and  the 
touches  of  style  that  lend  warmth  and  interest  to  the  explanation. 

31.    Is  the  use  of  etc.  advisable  here?     Explain  the  function  of  modifying. 

Topics:  The  action  of  the  lungs.  How  we  sec,  The  operation  of  the 
nervous  system. 


6l6  NOTES 

Outline.  This  analytical  outline  or  brief  has  been  supplied  by  the 
editors  to  indicate  the  best  way  to  understand  and  set  forth  the  arrange- 
ment and  importiince  of  tlie  parts  of  any  piece  of  expository  writing,  and  the 
relations  of  those  parts  to  each  other.  Outlines  may  be  of  various  degrees 
of  fulness,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  exposition  and  the  purpose  to  be 
served.  The  simplest  or  topical  outline  includes  a  topic  sentence  which 
briefl\-  states  the  central  idea,  followed  by  words  or  phrases  each  setting  forth 
the  more  important  subordinate  ideas  which  taken  together  sum  up  the 
substance  of  the  topic  sentence.  The  outline  of  T/ie  Manufacture  of  Mal- 
leable Iron  (p.  553)  is  an  example  of  this  type.  Another  kind  is  made  by 
writing  a  succession  of  topic  sentences,  each  equivalent  to  a  paragraph, 
without  regard  to  the  logical  relations  of  the  ideas  to  one  another.  The 
fullest  and  best  form,  whether  for  studying  the  structure  of  a  piece  of  writing 
or  for  guiding  the  writer  in  developing  his  subject,  is  the  analytical  outline, 
or  brief.  The  advantages  of  this  kind  are  that  it  not  only  puts  the  writer's 
ideas  in  cogent,  explicit,  and  accurate  form,  but  also  indicates  clearly  the 
importance  of  each  idea  and  its  relation  to  ever\-  other  idea  in  the  composi- 
tion. This  is  fully  illustrated  in  the  outline  beginning  on  p.  31.  The  prin- 
cipal divisions  are  indicated  by  the  numerals  and  letters  placed  in  the 
essay  itself,  beginning  on  p.  34.  For  t>'pographical  reasons  they  have  been 
placed  at  the  beginnings  of  the  paragraphs  in  which  they  fall. 

The  House  of  Representatives.  This  specimen  lucidly  explains  the 
organization  and  operation  of  an  exceedingly  complex  mechanism.  Begin- 
ning with  the  purpose  of  the  House,  the  author  next  proceeds  to  make  clear 
by  contrast  and  definition  the  general  character  of  its  functions,  then  the 
main  features  of  its  organization,  and  so  on  to  an  orderly  and  detailed 
analysis  of  its  operation,  .\lthough  the  subject  is  not  notably  entertaining, 
and  the  treatment  is  somewhat  formal,  the  style  is  nevertheless  attractive. 
Notice  the  structure  of  the  paragraphs^  the  use  of  topic  sentences,  and  of 
connectives,  and  the  way  in  which  the  jjial  paragraph  returns  to  the  idea 
e.xpressed  at  the  beginning.  Write  a  short  exposition  on  the  same  topic 
from  the  point  of  view  of  an  inexperienced  congressman  who  does  not 
realize  that  the  House  is  not  "  a  deHberative  body." 

34.  Mr.  Reed.  Thomas  Brackett  Reed  (1839-1902),  was  Speaker  of 
the  House  during  the  51st,  54th,  and  55th  Congresses.  His  autocratic  and 
vigorous  administration  of  the  duties  of  the  office  won  him  the  title  of 
"  Czar." 

36.  the  committees  being  some  fifty-seven  in  number.  In  1910  there 
were  sixty-two. 

36.  But  in  the  House  of  Representatives  there  is  only  the  very  slender 
chance  of  getting  the  rules  suspended,  etc.  The  rules  were  modified  in 
1910  to  permit  members  to  call  forth  bills  from  committee  after  the  "Unani- 
mous Consent  Calendar  "  on  any  Monday. 

36.  The  Government.  The  ministry,  which  presents  all  bills  to  the 
House  of  Commons. 


NOTES  617 

36.  entrusts  every  appointment  to  the  Speaker.  In  March  1910,  the 
House  modified  the  power  of  the  Speaker.  Committees  are  now  appointed 
by  the  Ways  and  Means  Committee,  of  which  the  floor  leader  is  chairman. 
This  fact  modifies  many  statements  in  succeeding  pages  of  this  dis- 
cussion. 

39.   consists  of  five  members,  etc.     Now  ten,  and  the  Speaker  is  excluded. 

41.  Air.  Carlyle.  Thomas  Carlyle  (1795-1881),  essayist  and  historian,  of 
whom  it  has  been  said  that  he  preached  silence  in  twenty-five  volumes. 

Topics  :  Organization  and  duties  of  a  city  council,  How  a  president  is 
elected,  Organization  of  the  American  consular  service.  Organization  of  a 
state  legislature,  The  Red  Cross,  The  Salvation  Army,  Organization  of  a 
factory,  a  bank,  a  railroad  system,  a  newspaper  staff,  The  Associated  Press. 

Mine  Helmets.  An  example  of  the  best  tj^ie  of  untechnical  explana- 
tion of  a  mechanism.  Taken  from  a  longer  narrative,  it  is  not  a  finished 
unit,  but  the  coherence,  rapidity,  and  correctness  of  the  style  will  repay 
study.     Notice  expecially  the  well-packed  sentences. 

Topics:  The  fountain  pen.  The  vacuum  cleaner.  The  adding  machine, 
The  cash  register,  The  fireless  cooker,  A  typewriter,  A  camera. 

A  Mechanical  Dishwasher.  A  brief  but  clear  explanation  such  as  a 
student  should  write  in  twenty  minutes.  Are  any  unnecessary  words  used? 
Compare  the  method  of  presentation  with  that  in  "  Mine  Helmets,"  or  "  On 
Making  Camp." 

Topics :  Write  single  paragraphs  on  the  topics  listed  under  the  preceding 
selection. 

How  the  Panama  Locks  are  Operated.  This  specimen  is  a  semi- 
technical  explanation  of  an  extensive  and  complicated  piece  of  machinery. 
The  writer  has  made  an  orderly  presentation  of  numerous  and  scattered 
mechanical  details  in  a  relatively  brief  article  with  such  clearness  as  to  make 
drawings  and  illustrations  not  essential.  To  brevity  and  clearness  practi- 
cally all  other  qualities  of  style  have  been  subordinated  almost  to  the  point 
of  exclusion.  Compare  the  style  with  that  of  "  The  ^Esthetic  Value  of 
Efficiencj^,"  "  Mine  Helmets,"  and  "  House  of  Representatives  " ;  also  with 
Mr.  Bryce's  article  on  "  The  Panama  Canal."  To  understand  the  problem 
of  organizing  this  kind  of  material,  make  an  analytical  brief  of  the  whole. 

47.  Before  we  can  understand,  etc.  Could  the  awkward  repetitions  in 
this  paragraph  be  avoided  without  sacrificing  clearness  or  brevity? 

50.  The  control  boards  for  each  lock,  etc.  Is  this  paragraph  well  ar- 
ranged?    Rearrange  for  greater  clearness  and  ease. 

51.  Aluminium.     Why  not  aluminum,  as  on  p.  46? 

52.  In  order  to  make  it  necessary,  etc.  Test  this  paragraph  as  suggested 
for  that  on  p.  47. 

Additional  explanation  of  mechanisms  and  mechanical  processes  may 
be  found  in  "  The  ^Esthetic  Value  of  Efficiency,"  pp.  62  and  63,  and 
Students'  Themes,  p.  534. 

Topics:    Construction  of   a  skyscraper.  Building   a  suspension    bridge, 


6iS  NOTES 

Laying  a  railrixid  track,  0]>eratini;  a  wireless  station,  Operating  a  terminal 
system,  Constructing  a  river  dam.  How  a  refrigerating  plant  is  operated, 
How  a  tliresliing  macliine  works,  The  "  Soo  "  locks. 

DISCUSSIONS   OF  FACTS  AND  IDEAS 

The  Beginning  of  Cabinet  Government.  This  is  an  illustration  of  com- 
pactly organized  historical  exposition.  Study  the  close  coherence.  Observe 
the  transitional  sentences  and  the  pithy  quality  of  the  closing  sentence  in 
every  paragrapli,  and  the  way  in  which  the  entire  passage  is  concluded. 

56.  Triennial  Bill,  one  providing  that  a  Parliament  shall  continue  for 
three  years.     Five  years  is  the  present  duration  of  a  Parliament. 

57.  Clarendon.  Edward  Hyde,  first  Earl  of  Clarendon  (1609-1674). 
He  supported  Charles  I  during  the  great  Rebellion,  and  after  the  Restoration 
became  the  most  influential  minister  of  Charles  II. 

Topics:  The  Development  of  the  .\merican  Cabinet,  The  Growth  of  civil 
ser\'ice  reform.  The  rise  of  the  Republican  party,  The  history  of  the 
Granger  movement,  The  development  of  the  anti-saloon  movement,  The 
territorial  growth  of  the  United  States,  The  history  of  Irish  home  rule. 

The  .Esthetic  Value  of  Efficiency.  This  is  an  attempt  to  interpret  in  its 
ideal  significance  a  familiar  factor  in  modern  life  by  showing  its  operation 
in  a  typical  community.  In  order  that  there  should  be  no  doubt  as  to  her 
purpose,  the  writer  armounces  what  may  lie  called  the  intellectual  point  of 
view  in  a  prefatory  paragraph.  The  article  proper  begins  with  the  second 
paragraph  in  which  the  point  of  view  becomes  physical  and  makes  the  treat- 
ment concrete  and  familiar.  Observe  the  abundance  of  material  details 
concerning  the  industrial,  the  social,  and  the  mental  life  which  the  writer 
describes  before  she  ventures  to  make  the  moral  application  for  which  she 
has  prepared  us. 

63.  "short,  sharp  shock."    A  phrase  from  Gilbert  and  Sullivan's  "Mikado." 

Topics:  The  influence  of  state  support  on  higher  education.  The  influ- 
ence of  government  experiment  stations  upon  agriculture.  The  influence 
of  woman  suffrage  on  government.  The  influence  of  forests  on  water 
storage.  The  influence  (social,  moral,  or  aesthetic)  of  the  moving  picture 
on  small  towns.  The  effect  of  the  credit  system  upon  Southern  agriculture, 
The  influence  of  the  automobile  on  farm  life.  The  influence  of  high  school 
fraternities  upon  scholarship. 

The  Honey  Bee.  This  article  is  especially  interesting  as  an  example  of 
the  adaptation  of  material  to  a  special  audience.  The  wxiter  is  a  man  of 
science  who  is  addressing  an  educated,  perhaps  even  a  literarj-,  but  pre- 
sumably non-scientific  audience.  Though  he  takes  nothing  for  granted, 
he  never  seems  to  write  down  to  the  reader.  The  style  has  a  familiar  charm, 
enlivened  with  touches  of    subdued  humor  and   an  appropriate   flavor  of 

literary  allusion. Unity   is  attained   very  simply   by  taking    up    the 

activities  of  the  bee  in  a  complete  cycle  from  one  swarming  to  the  next. 


NOTES  619 

70.  "  All  is  the  stale's."  Virgil's  Fourth  Georgic,  Dryden's  translation, 
line  229. 

73.  "  Swept  and  garnished,"  "  St.  Mattliew,"  xii,  44. 

74.  "  And  with  their  stores,"  etc.,  lines  55-58. 

78.    "  cumbered  about  much  serving,"  "  St.  Luke,"  x,  40. 

81.   "  Their  friends  attend,"  line  374. 

84.    "  Vesprit  dc  la  ruche,"  the  spirit  of  the  hive. 

Topic:  The  life  and  habits  of  any  animal  with  which  you  are  acquainted 
or  which  you  have  studied. 

The  Panama  Canal.  This  passage  offers  a  problem  in  the  arrangement  of 
an  assortment  of  miscellaneous  facts  of  different  kinds  of  interest.  First  we 
have  some  statistics  appl^dng  to  the  Canal  as  a  whole,  then  an  account  of  its 
geographical  and  engineering  features  aside  from  the  Gatun  Dam  and 
Culebra  Cut,  which  because  of  their  greater  interest  are  reserved  for  separate 
treatment.  A  description  of  the  Canal  landscape  is  interpolated,  and  a 
short  paragraph  of  comment  brings  the  whole  to  a  smooth  conclusion.  Is 
any  other  arrangement  of  these  divisions  possible  or  preferable? 

88.  The  locks  will  be  worked.  For  the  manner  of  operating  the  locks, 
see  p.  47. 

Topics :  An  atliletic  field,  A  college  campus,  A  visit  to  Niagara,  A  trip 
through  the  stock  yards  —  through  a  factory  —  over  a  large  farm. 

On  the  Physical  Basis  of  Life.  Like  "  The  Honey  Bee,"  this  essay  illus- 
trates the  art  of  adapting  material  to  an  audience.  But  in  the  former  case 
the  writer  dealt  with  facts  which  would  be  accepted  without  challenge,  so 
that  he  had  only  to  see  that  his  presentation  was  lucid  and  intelligible, 
whereas  in  the  present  instance  the  writer  has  the  problem  of  counteracting 
a  strongly  ingrained  popular  prejudice  and  his  treatment  therefore  requires 
something  of  the  method  of  argument.  Professor  Shipley  begins  his  exposi- 
tion without  a  word  of  preliminary,  but  Huxley  takes  two  pages  to  focus  the 
attention  of  his  reader  on  the  startling  nature  of  his  new  truth.  Having 
pried  his  reader's  mind  wide  open,  he  proceeds  to  pour  in  his  information. 
Analyze  the  six  introductory  paragraphs  in  their  relation  to  the  struc- 
ture of  the  entire  essay.  What  are  the  literary  (as  distinguished  from  the 
structural)  qualities  of  the  style?  Observe  the  imaginative  strokes  by 
which  Huxley  gives  vividness  and  significance  to  his  facts.  Is  the  effect  of 
Huxley's  exposition  to  lower  our  conception  of  human  life  or  to  enhance  the 
dignity  of  all  life?     How  is  the  effect  produced? 

91.  hugest  of  beasts  that  live.     This  is  a  reminiscence  of  the  Miltonic 

"  that  sea-beast 
Leviathan,  which  God  of  all  his  works 
Created  hugest  that  swim  the  ocean  stream." 

—  Paradise  Lost,  I,  200-2. 

Schoolmen,  the  speculative  theologians  of  the  mcditTeval  church. 

92.  Goethe,  Johann  Wolfgang  (1749-1832),  the  greatest  of  German  poets. 


620  NOTES 

"  Warnni  Ireibt  sicli,"  etc.  "  Wherefore  do  tlic  mortals  thus  jostle  eacli 
other  and  clamor?  They  wish  to  feed,  to  bring  fortii  children  and  nourish 
them  as  well  as  they  can.  .  .  .  Further  no  man  attains,  strive  how  he 
may.  " 

94.  could  our  cars  cak/t  the  murmurs.  See  "  The  Sound  of  Summer," 
P-  347- 

Mil  no- Edwards   Henr>-  (1800-1885),  French  zoologist. 

97.    Dc  Bary.  Hcinrich  Anton  (1831-1888),  German  botanist. 

99.  Kiihnc,  Willy  (1837-1900),  German  physiologist. 

Topics :  The  solar  spectrum.  Hypnotism,  Mcndelism,  The  origin  of 
language,  The  survival  of  the  fittest,  The  nebular  hypothesis.  The  wave 
theory  of  light,  Spiritualism. 

The  Middle  and  Lower  Classes  in  England.  This  is  an  example  of 
generalization  based  on  a  multitude  of  particular  facts.  Mr.  Trevelj'an 
attempts  here  what  his  distinguished  uncle  ^lacaulay  has  done  for  a  later 
period  in  the  famous  third  chapter  of  his  "  History  of  England  "  —  to 
represent  the  complex  life  of  a  period  in  a  broad  view.  Macaulay  is  often 
charged  with  making  his  generalizations  without  sufficiently  weighing  the 
facts.  Observe  how  Mr.  Trcvelyan  supports  his  statements  by  specific 
statistics  and  careful  reference  to  authorities. 

Observe  how  point  of  \iew-  is  obtained  by  means  of  the  opening  paragraph 
on  England  of  the  present  time.  Notice  the  effect  of  the  closing  sentence 
in  definitely  unifying  the  passage.  What  is  the  dominant  interest  in  the 
exposition?  The  passage  offers  an  excellent  opportunity  for  the  analysis 
of  structure  and  for  a  study  in  the  condensation  of  material. 

100.  The  Tudors.  Their  line  began  with  Henry  \TI  in  1485  and  ended 
when  Elizabeth  was  succeeded  in  1603  by  the  first  of  the  Stuarts,  James  I. 

Ihe  habilalions  of  man.  Compare  Ruskin's  description  of  "  English 
Cottages,"  p.  372. 

101.  Wat  Tyler,  the  leader  of  a  peasant  revolt  in  the  reign  of  Richard  W. 
He  was  killed  during  the  outbreak  (1381). 

103.  Fuller,  Thomas  (1608-1661),  an  English  divine  and  man  of  letters. 

104.  Charleses  cause,  the  struggle  of  Charles  I  against  Parliament 
during  the  Great  Rebellion  which  broke  out  in  1641. 

CobbcU,  William  (1766-1835),  a  prolific  journalist  and  a  violent  political 
agitator. 

Commonwealth,  the  government  of  England  between  the  beheading  of 
Charles  I  and  the  Restoration. 

105.  House  of  Bourbon,  the  dynasty  which  ruled  France  during  the 
seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries,  from  Henry  IV  to  Louis  X\T. 

the  Jacquerie,  a  peasant  outbreak  against  the  nobility  of  France  in  1358. 

wars  of  Froissart.  Jean  Froissart  (1338-1410)  wrote  the  chronicles  of  the 
Hundred  Years'  War,  most  of  which  was  waged  during  his  lifetime. 

108.  Prince  Charles  of  Madrid,  a  reference  to  the  visit  which  Charles  1, 
before  he  became  king,  made  to  Spain  in  1623. 


NOTES  621 

Topics:  The  present  status  of  the  American  laborer,  Social  and  economic 
condition  of  the  American  farmer,  American  commerce  before  the  Civil 
War,  The  life  of  the  slave  in  the  South,  The  people  of  Mexico  —  the 
reasons  for  their  political  unrest,  The  legal  and  economic  position  of 
woman  in  the  United  States. 

Inaugural  Address.  The  aim  of  the  speaker  in  this  address  is  not 
directly  to  present  facts  but  to  explain  their  significance  to  an  audience 
supposedly  familiar  with  them.  An  interpretation  of  this  sort  has  value  in 
proportion  to  the  authority'  of  the  speaker.  It  is  the  same  type  of  composi- 
tion which,  on  a  lower  level,  is  to  be  found  in  the  editorial.  Analyze  the 
substance  and  style  of  this  address  in  its  suitableness  to  the  occasion.  Does 
the  President  talk  down  to  "  the  people  "? 

Lincoln  as  More  than  an  American.  This  also  is  interpretation,  but 
of  a  different  kind  of  material.  An  idea  is  set  forth  by  means  of  a  single 
example.  Could  this  passage  be  appropriately  classified  as  biography? 
Compare  with  this  the  analysis  of  Americanism  in  the  essay  on  "  Mark 
Twain,"  p.  208. 

114.  Douglas,  Stephen  (1813-1861),  Lincoln's  celebrated  political  rival, 
frequently  successful  against  him. 

115.  St.  Francis  of  Assist  (1181— 1226),  perhaps  the  most  saintly  of  all 
Christian  priests,  the  founder  of  the  Franciscan  order  of  monks. 

120.  William  Lloyd  Garrison  (1805-1879),  leader  of  the  radical  Aboli- 
tionists before  the  Civil  War. 

121.  Stanton,  Edwin  M.  (1814-1869),  had  bitterly  opposed  and  de- 
nounced Lincoln  before  the  Civil  War,  but  nevertheless  Lincoln  appointed 
him  Secretary  of  War  in  1862. 

Chase,  Salmon  P.  (1808-1873),  Lincoln's  Secretary  of  the  Treasury  from 
1861  to  1864.  Though  he  was  guilty  of  flagrant  ingratitude  during  his  term 
of  office,  Lincoln  appointed  him  to  the  Supreme  Court. 

122.  the  plaintive  little  verses,  from  "  Songs  of  Israel  "  by  William  Knox 
(i 789-1825) :   "  Oh,  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud?  "  etc. 

Topics:  What  is  an  American?  The  Western  American,  Theodore 
Roosevelt  or  Woodrow  Wilson  as  types  of  the  American,  Jane  Addams  as  a 
t_\'pe  of  American  womanhood,  American  political  ideals,  American  ideals  of 
conduct. 

English  and  American  Sportsmanship.  The  difference  in  the  atti- 
tude of  the  Englishman  and  the  American  toward  his  athletics  is  one  of  the 
commonplaces  of  observation  among  those  interested  in  sport.  What 
makes  Mr.  Corbin's  treatment  of  this  subject  worth  reading?  Are  his 
opinions  warped  by  prejudice  in  favor  of  cither  side?  In  whose  favor  does 
the  balance  finally  seem  to  rest? 

Topics:  The  purpose  of  college  sport.  Ethics  of  the  college  athlete. 
The  value  of  intercollegiate  athletics,  Interclass  contests.  The  training 
table.  On  supporting  the  team.  The  faculty  control  of  athletics. 

Self-cultivation  in  English.     Like  Hazlitt's  remarks  on  "  Familiar  Style  " 


62  2  NOTES 

(p.  14),  this  selection  is  primarily  interesting  for  its  excellent  advice  on 
the  choice  of  words  and  for  the  way  in  which  its  example  gives  point  to  the 
precepts.  Of  the  three  qualiliLS  recommended,  which  is  the  most  notably 
illustrated  in  tlie  practice  ?  Comment  on  the  following  expressions:  "  Nig- 
gardly and  angul:ir  speakers,"  "  a  vague  and  undetermined  meaning," 
"articulate  his  thought,"  "pungent  .  .  .  impression,"  "embroidery  or 
superposed  ornament,"  "  purgation  of  superfluities,"  "  unpermittedly  pass 
the  portal  of  the  leetli."     Do  you  disappnne  of  any  of  these? 

The  structure  of  this  paper  as  a  whole  and  in  its  details  should  be  care- 
fully observed  —  the  introduction,  the  arrangement  of  the  points  in  simple 
enumerative  order,  the  composition  of  each  paragraph,  the  transitions,  and 
the  concluding  paragraph.  Notice  the  short,  crisp  sentences.  Are  they 
appropriate  in  view  of  the  fact  that  they  were  composed  for  oral  deliver>-  ? 
Do  they  become  monotonous  ? 

131.  George  Herbert  (1503-1633),  an  English  religious  poet  of  the  so- 
called  "  metaphysical  "  school. 

Ben  Jonson's  description.     See  "  Timber,"  Schelling's  edition,  p.  30. 

132.  Dante  (i 265-1321),  the  great  Italian  poet,  author  of  the  "  Divina 
Commedia." 

134.  Hobbis,  Thomas  (1588-1679),  the  English  philosopher,  author  of 
'■  The  Leviathan." 

The  Social  Value  of  the  College-bred.  This  belongs  to  the  same  class 
of  writing  as  the  Inaugural  Address.  It  is  the  setting  forth  of  an  idea.  In 
so  far  as  the  idea  suggests  translation  into  practice  the  writing  will  partake  of 
the  manner  of  argument  or  persuasion.  It  is  indeed  hard  to  draw  a  precise 
line  between  an  essay  like  this  and  the  Inaugural  Address,  on  the  one  hand, 
and  President  Wilson's  Swartlimore  Address  and  Lincoln's  Gettysburg 
Address,  which  are  included  in  this  book  under  Persuasion,  on  the  other. 
Perhaps  the  fact  that  the  application  of  the  idea  is  implied  rather  than- 

expressed  justifies  placing  the  article  in  this  position. Is  there  any 

analogy  in  aim  between  this  essay  and  Mr.  Croly's  on  "  Lincoln  as  more 
than  an  American  "?  Compare  the  substance  of  this  essay  with  Newman's 
on  "  The  Aim  of  a  University  Education  "  and  President  Wilson's  Swarth- 
more  Address. 

Like  "  Self-cultivation  in  English,"  this  article  was  composed  for  oral 
delivery.  Compare  the  diction  of  the  two.  Which  is  the  more  natural,  the 
racier,  the  more  spontaneous?  Which  is  the  bolder,  the  more  picturesque, 
the  more  brilliant?  Compare  the  two  in  figurativeness.  Does  metaphor 
or  simile  strike  you  as  being  more  effective  in  prose?  Why?  Compare 
the  figure  of  the  glove  Cp.  130)  or  the  simile  of  the  cook  (p.  135)  with  "  you 
may  remain  a  crude  and  smoky  kind  of  petroleum,  incapable  of  giving  light  " 
(p.  137),  or  "  currents  of  self-interest,  and  gales  of  passion  are  the  forces  that 
keep  the  human  ship  moving  "  (p.  142). Compare  the  sentence  struc- 
ture of  the  two.  Which  is  the  more  emphatic?  Which  the  more  graceful? 
Which  has  more  variety? 


NOTES  623 

142.  tJic  Anti-Dreyfus  craze.  Alfred  Dreyfus,  a  captain  in  the  French 
army,  of  Jewish  parentage,  was  convicted  in  1894  on  a  charge  of  seUing  army 
secrets,  and  after  spending  twelve  years  on  Devil's  Island  was  given  a  new 
trial  in  1906  and  completely  vindicated  in  spite  of  violent  Anti-Semitic 
agitation. 

Topics:  The  value  of  a  technical  education.  The  value  of  liberal  courses 
for  the  engineer  —  for  the  farmer  — -  for  the  lawj-er,  What  the  engineer 
should  read,  The  recreations  of  the  college  man.  The  college  man  in 
politics,  A  college  training  for  a  business  career,  The  newspaper  for 
college  men.  Student  organizations  as  a  training  for  leadership. 

EXPOSITORY  BIOGRAPHY 

This  section  includes  biographical  writing  which  aims  to  give  not 
a  narrative  of  vital  facts,  but  a  character  and  a  personality  to  its  subject. 
It  does  not,  merely,  or  primarily,  "  repeat  the  familiar  formulas,"  in  the 
words  of  Leslie  Stephen, '"  about  the  man  who  was  born  on  such  a  day,  was 
educated  at  the  grammar  school  of  his  native  town,  graduated  in  such  a  year, 
became  a  fellow  of  his  college,  took  a  living,  married,  pubHshed  a  volume  of 
sermons  which  nobody  has  read  for  a  century  or  two,  and  has  been  during 
all  that  time  in  his  churchyard."  It  offers  such  facts,  perchance,  but  only 
incidentally  to  explaining  what  manner  of  man  the  subject  was,  and  to 
making  him  alive  by  analyzing  his  thoughts  and  revealing  his  pecuHarities 
of  action,  by  bringing  out  his  characteristic  features  —  physical,  mentiil, 
and  moral,  as  disclosed  in  his  contact  with  his  fellow  men. 

Francis  Parkman.  The  purpose  of  the  writer,  announced  in  the 
first  sentence,  at  once  limits  the  material  to  such  as  will  emphasize  the  heroism 
of  Parkman.  When  a  biographer  has  with  full  knowledge  fixed  upon  what 
he  conceives  to  be  the  traits  dominant  in  the  person  of  whom  he  is  writing 
he  will  quite  properly  emphasize  such  details  as  will  keep  those  traits  before 
the  reader.  The  dangers  of  this  practice  are  those  that  come  from  over- 
emphasis or  undue  subordination,  resulting  in  an  inaccurate,  distorted,  or 
false  portrait.     What  can  be  said  of  this  biography  from  that  standpoint? 

148.  A  still  greater  gift  to  the  literature  of  this  country.  Parkman's  style 
is  illustrated  on  pp.  461  ff.  and,  still  better,  in  the  book  from  which  the  selec- 
tion is  taken. 

148.  Wolfe,  James  (1727-1759),  major-general  in  the  British  army. 
See  pp.  461  ff. 

Topics:  Write  a  biographical  sketch  of  any  relative  or  acquaintance  for 
the  sake  of  eraphasiaing  his  most  characteristic  qualities,  those  usually  over- 
looked, those  that  most  dcliglit  his  enemies.  Write  an  obituary  notice 
of  such  a  person  in  a  way  to  satisfy  his  relatives  an<'l  friends,  as  well  as  his 
more  critical  acquaintances,  without  excess  of  praise  or  of  feeling. 

Goldwin  Smith.  An  example  of  chiiracter  portrayal  of  the  best  kind, 
termed   by  the   author  "  some  i)ersonal  impressions   formed   in  a   friend- 


624  NOTES 

ship  which  extended  over  more  than  forty-five  years,"  this  sketch  of  Goldwin 
Smith  "conveys  an  adequate  picture  of  him  as  he  was  in  his  best  years." 
Hvcry  element  of  character  drawing  may  be  found  in  it  —  biographical 
facts,  sympathetic  and  discerning  interpretation,  discriminating  criticism, 
illuminating  anecdote,  and,  in  the  closing  sentence,  by  way  of  summary,  a 
most  telling  use  of  the  effect  made  by  Goldwin  Smitii  upon  those  among 
whom  he  lived. 

Observe  the  estimate  the  writer  must  have  not  only  of  his  subject,  but  of 
the  whole  nature  and  history  of  the  country  and  the  time  in  order  to  write 
such  an  article.  Is  any  side  of  the  man's  nature  obviously  neglected? 
What  is  the  value  of  the  anecdote  of  King  John?  Point  out  the  ways  in 
which  the  personal  characteristics  and  the  appearance  of  the  man  are  made 
clear.  Characterize  the  style,  the  tone.  Explain  the  organization  of  the 
whole.     Is  the  ending  effective?     How  is  it  related  to  the  beginning? 

149.  Nestor,  a  Grecian  hero,  said  to  have  ruled  over  three  generations 
of  men. 

149.  Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor  (1772-1834),  English  poet,  critic,  and 
philosopher.  A  philosophical  democrat,  he  once  planned  to  emigrate  to 
America  and  found  a  Utopian  republic. 

149.  Reform  Bill.  Enacted  into  law  in  1832,  it  altered  the  basis  of  repre- 
sentation in  the  House  of  Commons,  brought  the  House  closer  to  the  people, 
made  it  more  sensitive  to  their  demands,  and  in  many  ways  changed  the 
course  of  British  politics. 

149.  Budget  Bill.  Passed  by  the  Commons  in  190Q,  its  veto  by  the  House 
of  Lords  brought  about  the  great  constitutional  change  which  deprived  the 
Lords  of  the  veto  power. 

149.   Peelites,  adherents  of  Sir  Robert  Peel,  prime  minister  1841-1846. 

149.  Gladstone,  Wi\l\a.Tn  Ewart  (1809-1898),  great  English  Liberal  states- 
man, four  times  prime  minister. 

149.    Herbert,  Cardwell,  members  of  Peel's  ministry.  « 

149.  Palmer,  Rounsell  (181 2-1895),  attorney  general  of  England 
1863-1866,  twice  lord  chancellor.  Counsel  for  Great  Britain  in  the  trial  of 
the  Alabama  claims. 

149.  Duke  of  Newcastle.  Henry  Pelham  Clinton  (1811-1864),  secretary 
of  war  at  the  beginning  of  the  Crimean  War. 

151.  Mansel,  Henry  Longueville  (1820-1871),  writer  on  logic,  theology, 
and  metaphysics. 

151.  Maurice,  John  Frederick  Denison  (1805-1872),  a  leader  of  the 
"  Broad  church  "  party. 

153.  Cobden,  Richard  (1804-1865),  English  Liberal  statesman,  leader 
in  the  movement  to  repeal  the  Corn  Laws. 

153.  Bright,  John  (1811-1899),  Radical  statesman,  friend  ot  Cobden; 
leader  in  Corn  Law  and  suffrage  reform  movements.  Both  he  and  Cobden 
were  leaders  in  tlie  "  Manchester  school  "  of  politics,  to  which  Goldwin 
Smith  belonged. 


NOTES  625 

154.  Louis  Napoleon  (1808-1873),  nephew  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte. 
Elected  president  of  France  in  1848,  he  became  emperor  by  the  coup  d'etat 
of  Dec.  2,  1851,  and  assumed  the  title  of  Napoleon  III. 

155.  Tweed,  William  Marcy  (1823-1878),  colossal  and  notorious 
political  grafter  of  New  York,  who  differed  from  most  of  his  successors 
in  that  he  died  in  prison. 

155.  Jim  Fiskc,  Judge  Barnard,  disreputable  participants  in  a  great 
financial  scandal  and  crisis  in  1867. 

155.  Pym,  Sir  Henry  Vane  the  younger,  Algernon  Sidney,  three  great 
statesmen  and  leaders  in  the  struggle  for  English  liberty  in  the  seventeenth 
century.  Consult  any  history  of  England,  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,  and 
Dictionary  of  National  Biography. 

155.   Disraeli,  Benjamin  (1805-1881),  English  statesman  and  author. 

158.  Bagehot,  Walter  (1826-1877),  writer  on  economics,  politics,  and 
history. 

159.  Mazzini,  Giuseppe  (1805-1872),  an  Italian  patriot  and  republican 
leader. 

161.  Erasmus  (i465?-i536),  a  celebrated  Dutch  scholar;  a  leader  in 
the  revival  of  learning. 

161.  Bacon,  Francis  (1561-1626),  English  philosopher,  statesman,  and 
author. 

161.  Meyers,  Frederic  William  Henry  (1843-1901),  English  poet  and 
essayist. 

161.  Froude,  James  Anthony  (1818-1894),  English  historian. 

162.  Freeman,  Edward  A.  (1823-1892),  EngHsh  historian,  appointed 
Regius  professor  of  history  at  O.xford  in  1884. 

164.  Bodleian,  an  Oxford  library  founded  by  Sir  Thomas  Bodley 
(1544-1612). 

INFORMAL   ESSAY 

The  informal  essay  aims  at  imparting  the  fruits  of  observation  and  reflection 
in  an  easy  strain.  (See  Hazlitt's  remarks  on  "  The  Tatler,"  p.  201.)  On 
account  of  the  tone  of  intimate  communication  between  the  writer  and  his 
reader  it  is  often  called  the  "  familiar  "  essay,  and  from  its  being  in  most 
cases  a  revelation  of  the  personality  of  the  writer  it  is  also  referred  to  as  the 
"  personal  "  essay.  Its  themes  are  as  diverse  as  the  tastes  and  interests 
of  its  writers,  from  the  impressions  of  a  rainy  day  to  a  reflection  on  immor- 
tality. Its  aim  may  be  to  describe  a  sensation,  to  create  a  mood,  or  to 
establish  a  highly  speculative  theory. 

The  informal  essay  does  not  require  the  same  closeness  of  structure  as 
other  forms  of  exposition.  Unity  of  a  kind  it  must  have,  but  it  is  not  of  the 
kind  that  depends  upon  the  systematic  arrangement  of  a  plan  and  a  regular 
progression  from  point  to  point.  Its  unity  is  one  of  feeling.  It  permits 
digressions  and  excursions,  provided  they  fuse  with  the  tone  and  temper 
of  the  discourse.     A  large  discursiveness,  a  freedom  in  allusion  and  iilus- 


626  NOTES 

tration.  may  even  be  a  distinguishing  \irluc  of  the  informal  essay.  Because 
of  its  emotional  coloring,  the  essay  displays  more  than  common  figurativeness 
in  its  language  and  is  careful  of  its  rhythmic  articulation. 

The  Realm  of  the  Commonplace.  Is  the  preaching  in  this  essaj- 
relieved  in  any  way?     What  personal  traits  can  you  discern  in  the  writer? 

Does  he  adhere  strictly  to  the  realm  of  the  commonplace?     What  is 

the  purpose  of  the  long  description  near  the  end  ?  Does  it  fuse  with  the  rest 
of  the  essay? 

168.    "  Look  into  tJic  heavens,"  etc.,  "  Job,"  xxxv,  5. 

170.    '■  Hast  thou  entered,"  etc.,  "  Job,"  .x.vxviii,  22. 

Apology  for  Idlers.  Hardly  any  writer  of  English  prose  devoted  a 
more  conscious  care  to  his  style  than  did  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Steven- 
son has  also  written  an  essay,  "  On  Some  Tccluiical  Elements  of  Style  in 
Literature,"  abounding  in  interesting  suggestions.  He  describes  literature 
as  a  web  or  pattern :  "  The  true  business  of  the  literary  artist  is  to  plait  or 
weave  his  meaning,  involving  it  around  itself;  so  that  each  sentence,  by 
successive  phrases,  shall  first  come  into  a  kind  of  knot,  and  then,  after  a 
moment  of  suspended  meaning,  solve  and  clear  itself.  In  every  properly 
constructed  sentence  there  should  be  observed  this  knot  or  hitch ;  so  that 
(however  delicately)  we  are  led  to  foresee,  to  expect,  and  then  to  welcome 
the  successive  phrases.  The  pleasure  may  be  heightened  by  an  element  of 
surprise,  as,  very  grossly,  in  the  common  figure  of  the  antithesis,  or,  with 
much  greater  subtlety,  where  an  antithesis  is  first  suggested  and  then 
deftly  evaded.  I^ach  phrase,  besides,  is  to  be  comely  in  itself;  and 
between  the  implication  and  the  evolution  of  the  sentence  there  should 
be  a  satisfying  equipoise  of  sound ;  for  nothing  more  often  disappoints 
the  ear  than  a  sentence  solemnly  and  sonorously  prepared,  and  hastily 
and  weakly  finished.  Nor  should  the  balance  be  too  striking  and  exact,  for 
the  one  rule  is  to  be  infinitely  various ;  to  interest,  to  disappoint,  to  surprise, 
and  yet  still  to  gratifj- ;  to  be  ever  changing,  as  it  were,  the  stitch,  and  yet 
still  to  give  the  effect  of  an  ingenious  neatness."  A  little  later  he  explains 
what  he  means  by  "  the  comely  phrase  " :  "  Each  phrase  of  each  sentence, 
like  an  air  or  a  recitative  in  music,  should  be  so  artfully  compounded  out  of 
long  and  short,  out  of  accented  and  unaccented,  as  to  gratify  the  sensual  ear. 
And  of  this  the  ear  is  the  sole  judge.  It  is  impossible  to  lay  down  laws. 
Even  in  our  accentual  and  rhythmic  language  no  analysis  can  find  tlie  secret 
of  the  beauty  of  a  verse;  how  much  less,  then,  of  those  phnises,  such  as 
prose  is  built  of,  which  obey  no  law  but  to  be  lawless  and  yet  to  please?  " 
In  summing  up  he  again  emphasizes  the  prose- writer's  task  "  of  keeping  his 
phrases  large,  rhythmical,  and  pleasing  to  the  ear,  without  ever  allowing 
them  to  fall  into  the  strictly  metrical  ...  of  artfully  combining  the  prime 
elements  of  language  into  phrases  that  shall  be  musical  in  the  mouth,  of 
weaving  his  argument  into  a  texture  of  committed  phrases  and  of  rounded 
periods."  And  this  is  his  heartening  conclusion :  "  We  begin  to  see  now 
what  an  intricate  affair  is  any  perfect  passage ;  how  many  faculties,  whether 


I 


NOTES  627 

of  taste  or  pure  reason,  must  be  held  upon  the  stretch  to  make  it ;  and  why, 
when  it  is  made,  it  should  afford  us  so  complete  a  pleasiu-e.  From  the 
arrangement  of  according  letters,  which  is  altogether  arabesque  and  sensual, 
up  to  the  architecture  of  the  elegant  and  pregnant  sentence,  which  is  a 
vigorous  act  of  pure  intellect,  there  is  scarce  a  faculty  in  man  but  has  been 
exercised.  We  need  not  wonder,  then,  if  perfect  sentences  are  rare,  and 
perfect  pages  rarer." 

Applying  the  figure  of  the  web  to  the  present  essay,  examine  it  for  uni- 
formity of  texture  and  harmony  of  design.  Are  there  any  "  purple  patches- " 
in  this  essay  or  "  superposed  ornament  "?     Characterize  the  dominant  tone. 

Note    the   sentences    which    illustrate    "  expectedness,"    "surprise," 

evasion  of  the  obvious,  "  satisfjdng  equipoise  of  sound."  Which  of  these 
qualities  would  you  attribute  to  the  first  and  last  sentences  of  the  first 
paragraph?  to  the  sentences  in  the  second  paragraph?  to  the  last  four 
sentences  of  the  essay  ? 

This  paper  illustrates  not  only  Stevenson's  care  for  "  the  comely  phrase  " 
but  his  regard  for  the  value  of  the  single  word.  In  all  writing  that  is  not 
coldly  expository  the  success  of  a  word  depends  as  much  on  its  associations, 
whether  of  sound  or  sense,  as  on  its  common  meaning.  It  is  this  associative 
power  which  Stevenson  has  in  mind  when  he  writes,  in  the  essay  on  Style 
already  quoted,  that  "  the  first  merit  which  attracts  in  the  pages  of  a  good 
writer,  or  the  talk  of  a  brilliant  conversationalist,  is  the  apt  choice  and 
contrast  of  the  words  employed.  It  is,  indeed,  a  strange  art  to  take  these 
blocks,  rudely  conceived  for  the  purpose  of  the  market  or  the  bar,  and  by 
tact  of  application  touch  them  to  the  finest  meanings  and  distinctions, 
restore  to  them  their  primal  energy,  wittily  shift  them  to  another  issue,  or 

make  of  them  a  driun  to  rouse  the  passions." Pick  out  a  number  of 

common  words  and  phrases  which  seem  to  be  transformed  in  significance  by 
Stevenson's  appliaition  of  them.  Does  Stevenson's  phrasing  ever  fall  into 
the  commonplace,  the  rhetorical,  the  stilted? 

173.  lese-respectability,  formed  by  Stevenson  on  the  model  of  lese- 
majeste. 

174.  glory  of  having  taken  Rome.  An  aUusion  to  the  invasion  of  Rome 
by  the  Gauls  in  398  B.C. 

Johnson,  see  p.  15  and  note. 

Lady  of  Shalott.     See  Tennyson's  poem  of  that  name. 

175.  between  sleep  and  waking.  Cf.  "King  Lear,"  Act  i,  Scene  2- 
"  Got  'tween  asleep  and  wake." 

Emphyteusis  and  Stillicidc,  terms  of  Roman  law.      The  first  means  the 
legal  renting  of  groimd,  the  second  a  continual  dropping  of  water. 
Balzac,  Honore  de  (i 799-1850),  the  great  French  realistic  novelist. 

176.  Sainle-Beuve,  Charles  Augustin  (1804- 1869),  the  greatest  of 
French  critics. 

177.  old  shepherd  telling  his  talc,  a  recollection  of  Milton's  "  L'AUegro." 
179.    Colonel  Newcomc,  Fred  Bayham,  Mr.  Barnes,  characters  in  Thack- 
eray's novel,  "  The  Ncwcomes." 


6:8  NOTES 

Falsliijf.  the  famous  comic  character  in  "  Henry  TV  "  and  "  Merry  Wives 

of  W  indsor." 

J-iiiniblHis,  the  leadiriR  character  in  Marlowe's  "  Jew  of  Malta." 

llazlitl  .  .  .  Kortluok.    James    Northcotc    (i 746-1831)  was  a  painter 

whose  talk  Hazlitt  has  recorded  in  a  book,  the  last  one  he  publislied,  "  The 

Convers;\tions  of  James  Northcote." 

180.  quality  of  nirrcy,  etc.,  a  reference  to  the  famous  speech  of  Portia 
ill  "  'ihe  Merchant  of  Venice." 

181.  When  they  told  Joan  of  Arc,  etc.    See  page  437. 

"so  careless  of  the  single  life."    Tennj-son's  "  In  Memoriam,"  LV. 

Shakespeare  .  .  .  Sir  Thomas  Lucy.  An  allusion  to  a  legend  of  a 
deer-stealing  exploit  bj-  Shakespeare. 

Topics:  On  writing  about  one's  self,  The  pleasure  of  traveling,  On 
campus  nuisances.  The  magazine  habit,  An  apology  for  the  Saturday 
Ev<  niiig  Post,  The  recreations  of  a  student.  On  being  good.  On  the  decay 
of  hazing.  On  going  to  church.  On  studying  a  classic.  On  college  heroes, 
On  polite  lying.  Reflections  in  a  library,  On  cultivating  a  garden.  On 
campus  customs.  On  barber  shops.  On  the  feeling  of  consciousness  in 
freshmen.  On  the  speech  of  college  men.  On  the  seriousness  of  sport,  On 
letter  writing.  On  dormitories.  On  the  uses  of  leisure.  Thoughts  on  a 
college  course.  On  mother's  flower  garden.  On  fishing.  On  being  "  intro- 
duced," On  household  pets.  The  first  college  holiday. 

On  the  Feeling  of  Immortality  in  Youth.  The  two  forms  of  Hazlitt's 
essay  reproduced  in  the  text  give  point  to  many  a  saying  on  the  importance 
of  the  right  word.  The  essay  first  appeared,  in  the  form  printed  at  the 
bottom  of  the  page,  in  the  Monthly  Magazine  (March,  1827)  and  was  re- 
published, with  omissions  and  variations,  after  Hazlitt's  death  in  the  "  Lit- 
erar>^  Remains  "  (1836).  The  variations  have  been  printed  in  italics,  and 
ex]:)re5sions  in  each  text  having  no  correspondence  in  the  other  have  been 
set  in  brackets. 

Are  the  expressions  in  the  original  version  ever  incorrect  or  improper? 
Has  Hazlitt  substituted  "  finer  "  or  less  usual  words?  What  has  been  the 
result  of  his  verbal  changes  in  respect  to  associative  value,  sound  coloring, 
in  the  effect  on  "  equipoise  of  sound  "?  Does  the  result  give  the  impression 
of  being  labored?  Compare  this  essay  with  the  "  Apology  for  Idlers  "  in 
its  general  structure  and  its  "  web."  What  are  the  distinctive  stylistic 
merits  of  each  essay? 

183.  "  The  vast,"  etc.  An  adaptation  from  Addison's  "  Cato,"  Act  v 
Scene  i,  "  The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect,  lies  before  me."  The  use  of 
quotation  is  in  many  writers,  and  in  none  more  conspicuously  than  in  Hazlitt, 
a  prominent  feature  of  style.  When  the  mind  is  saturated  in  the  stream 
of  poetic  reminiscence,  the  phrases  of  the  poets  will  invade  the  natural 
utterance  and  impart  to  the  expression  something  of  tlieir  own  tone.  It  is 
a  rich  source  of  suggestiveness  in  style,  but  is  a  most  dangerous  snare  for  the 
unpracticed.     The  slightest  approach  to  impropriety  or  ostentation  converts 


NOTES 


629 


the  charm  to  a  poison.  The  writer  must  be  absolutely  at  ease  with  the 
phrases  he  handles,  must  make  them  fit  as  naturally  and  as  closely  into  his 
context  as  any  familiar  word  of  his  vocabulary,  so  naturally  that  quotation 
marks  look  like  an  impertinent  intrusion.  He  may  then  be  indulged  in  the 
licence  which  Hazlitt  often  permits  himself  of  slightly  altering  and  adapting 
the  words  of  others  to  bring  them  into  harmony  with  his  own  thought.  So 
integral  a  part  of  Hazlitt's  expression  do  these  phrases  become  that  when 
the  marks  are  omitted  it  is  often  difficult  to  distinguish  them  from  their 
surroundings.  Other  instances  of  this  practice  are  pointed  out  in  "  The 
Physical  Basis  of  Life,"  "  An  Apology  for  Idlers,"  "  Mark  Twain,"  "  Tur- 
ner's Slave  Ship,"  "  An  Accountant,"  and  elsewhere. 

"  bear  a  charmed  life."     "  Macbeth,"  Act  v.  Scene  8. 

"  Bidding  the  lovely  scene,"  etc.     Collins's  Ode,  "  The  Passions,"  32. 

184.  "  this  sensible,  warm  motion,"  etc.  "  Measure  for  Measure," 
Act  iii.  Scene  i. 

185.  "  wine  of  life."     "  Macbeth,"  Act  ii,  Scene  3. 
"  as  in  a  glass  darkly."     "  I  Corinthians,"  xiii,  12. 

the  foolish  fat  scullion.  See  Sterne's  "  Tristram  Shandy,"  Volume  5, 
Chapter  7. 

186.  "  Life,  thou  strange  thing,"  etc.  From  "  The  Art  of  War,"  a  poem 
by  Joseph  Fawcett,  Hazlitt's  friend. 

187.  "  the  feast  of  reason,"  etc.  Pope's  "  Imitations  of  Horace," 
Satire  I,  line  128. 

"  brave,  sublunary  things."  Cf.  "  Those  brave  translunary  things." 
Michael  Drayton;  "  To  Henry  Reynolds." 

188.  the  mighty  world  of  eye  and  ear.  Wordsworth's  "  Tintern  Abbey," 
line  105. 

"  the  stockdovc^s  notes,"  etc.  Thomson's  "  Castle  of  Indolence  "  Book  I, 
Stanza  4.     The  quotation  is  given  more  exactly  in  the  original  version. 

189.  Rembrandt,  the  great  Dutch  painter  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
It  was  in  despair  of  attaining  an  art  like  Rembrandt's,  Hazlitt  tells  us  else- 
where, that  he  abandoned  the  career  of  a  painter  which  he  had  undertaken 
before  turning  to  literature. 

190.  /  started  in  life,  etc.  Hazlitt  was  one  of  the  stanchest  English 
supporters  of  the  French  Revolution  and  all  its  effects.  He  defied  British 
sentiment  in  his  enthusiasm  for  Napoleon  and  appeared  heartbroken 
at  the  news  of  Waterloo.  This  was  one  of  the  reasons  for  his  unpopu- 
larity. 

192.  "  E en  from  the  tomb,"  etc.  Gray's  "  Elegy  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard." 

"  all  the  life  of  life."     Burns's  "  Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn." 

193.  "  From  the  last  dregs,"  etc.  Dryden's  "  Aurengzebe,"  Act  iv, 
Scene  i. 

194.  "  treason  domestic,"  etc.     "  Macbeth,"  Act  iii,  Scene  2. 
"  reverbs  its  own  hollowness."     "  King  Lear,"  Act  i,  Scene  i. 


630  NOTES 

REVIEWS  AND   CRITICISMS 

Jane  Austens  Emma.  Reviewing  is  the  branch  of  crilicism  vvhicli  aims 
til  Kinvcy  an  idea  of  a  work  of  art  to  persons  having  no  acquaintance  with  it. 
Tlie  duty  of  the  reviewer  is  more  to  translate  than  it  is  to  judge.  He  must 
Kive  a  just  impression  of  the  content  and  the  general  spirit  of  the  work. 
To  do  this  implies  a  certain  degree  of  judgment,  for  it  is  impossible  for  any 
person  to  speak  in  so  colorless  a  way  about  any  work  of  art  as  to  leave  no 
trace  of  his  attitude  toward  it.  But  the  success  of  a  review  depends  on  the 
writer's  capacity  for  reproducing,  even  with  a  remote  resemblance,  the 
impression  of  the  original  in  its  body  and  spirit.  In  the  case  of  a  novel  or  a 
play  the  simplest  manner  of  doing  this  is  by  means  of  a  summary  which 
indicates  the  kind  of  action  and  persons  with  which  the  story  is  concerned. 
Such  is  the  method  employed  by  Scott  in  his  essay  on  Jane  Austen.  A 
paragraph  of  generalization  is  followed  by  a  series  of  summaries  and  a  brief 

conclusion. Note  the  difference  in  the  length  of  the  summaries.     Is  the 

shortest  any  less  complete  than  the  longest?     Which  most  effectively  con- 
tributes to  the  writer's  aim  ? 

Jane  Austen  (1775-1817),  wrote  her  masterpieces  of  observation  and 
portrayal  of  quiet  country  life  amid  complete  popular  indifference.  Scott 
was  the  first  prominent  person  to  call  attention,  in  the  year  before  her 
death,  to  her  work.     She  has  since  taken  her  place  with  the  classics. 

195.   Bayes,  a  character  in  Buckingham's  "  Rehearsal." 

Miss  Edgcworlh,  ^Maria  (i 767-1849),  a  writer  of  novels  of  fashionable  life 
and  of  Irish  character,  for  whom  Scott  had  great  admiration.  Her  reputation 
was  high  in  her  own  day,  but  has  since  suffered  an  eclipse.  Only  her  Irish 
stories,  like  "  Castle  Rackrent,"  now  sustain  her  fame. 

Topics:  Write  a  review  of  a  recent  novel,  a  play,  or  poem  by  some  writer 
of  repute,  such  as  W.  J.  Locke,  Joseph  Conrad,  William  De  Morgan,  .\rnold 
Bennett,  John  Galsworthy,  H.  G.  Wells,  Alfred  Noyes,  John  Masefield, 
Edith  Wharton,  Eden  Philpotts,  J.  M.  Barrie,  George  Bernard  Shaw, 
Arthur  Wing  Pinero,  Henry  Arthur  Jones. 

The  Tatler.  Hazlitt's  object  in  this  passage  is  to  reproduce  the 
impression  which  he  has  received  from  a  set  of  miscellaneous  essays,  and  he 
does  so  without  e.'qjressing  a  judgment,  unless  we  call  a  judgment  the  general 
compliment  contained  in  the  first  sentence.  The  method  is  to  suggest  the 
subjects,  the  atmosphere,  the  observation,  the  humor,  the  reflection  of  "  The 
Tatler,"  not  bj-  means  of  general  remarks  on  each  topic,  but  by  a  series  of 
concrete  details,  each  contributing  a  telling  touch  and  all  combining  to  create 
the  very  feeling  trf  the  original.  This  is  called  impressionistic  criticism,  and 
in  the  hands  of  a  skilful  writer,  of  a  writer  with  restraint  as  well  as  apprecia- 
tion, it  may  produce  effects  as  fine  as  the  work  of  which  it  treats. 

The  Tatler  was  the  first  of  the  famous  eighteenth-century  essay-periodi- 
cals. Richard  Steele,  its  founder,  and  Joseph  Addison  were  the  chief  con- 
tributors. It  ran  from  April  12,  1709,  to  Jan.  2,  1711,  and  was  succeeded 
by  "  The  Spectator." 


NOTES  63 1 

201.  Montaigne,  Michel  de  (1533-1592),  is  not  only  the  first,  but  the 
greatest  of  all  essayists. 

Isaac  BickerstaJJ,  Esq.  This  name  had  just  been  made  notorious  by 
Swift  and  was  assumed  by  Steele  in  connection  with  "  The  Tatler." 

the  disastrous  strokes,  etc.  Compare  "  Othello,"  Act  i.  Scene  3:  "  Some 
distressful  stroke  that  my  youth  suffered." 

He  dwells  with  a  secret  satisfaction.     "  The  Tatler,"  No.  107. 

the  club  at  the  Trumpet.     "  The  Tatler,"  No.  132. 

the  cavalcade,  etc.     "  The  Tatler,"  No.  86. 

202.  the  upholsterer  and  his  companions.  "  The  Tatler,"  Nos.  155,  160, 
178. 

burlesque  copy  of  verses.  "  The  Tatler,"  No.  238.  These  verses  were 
written  by  Swift. 

Plutarch  [c.  46-120),  a  prolific  Greek  writer,  whose  most  famous  work  is 
a  series  of  Parallel  Lives  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  of  which  there  are  several 
well-known  English  translations. 

Betterton,  Mrs.  Oldfield,  Penkethman,  Bullock,  are  all  actors  of  that  day. 

Duke  of  Marlborough,  John  Churchill  (1650-1722),  was  probabh^  the 
greatest  of  all  British  generals. 

Marshal  Turenne  (1611-1675),  a  great  French  general. 

Vanbrugh,  Sir  John  (?i664-i726),  one  of  the  chief  writers  of  Restoration 
comedies. 

Pope,  Alexander  (1688-1744),  the  greatest  of  the  classical  school  in 
English  poetry. 

Write  an  appreciation  of  "  The  Essays  of  Elia,"  a  volume  of  Hazlitt's 
essays,  the  novels  of  Dickens,  the  poetry  of  Scott,  the  tales  of  Poe,  a  story  of 
Cooper's,  Mark  Twain's  "  Huckleberry  Finn  "  and  "  Tom  Sawyer,"  Steven- 
son's stories  of  adventure,  Tennyson's  "  Idylls  of  the  King,"  the  poetry  of 
Burns. 

The  Waverley  Novels.  In  this  passage  we  have  an  illustration  of 
criticism  exercising  its  supreme  function,  that  of  judging  the  qualities  which 
entitle  a  writer  to  a  rank  among  the  great  ones  in  the  art.  In  distinction 
from  the  creative  process  involved  in  Hazhtt's  remarks  on  "  The  Tatler," 
the  process  here  may  be  called  analytic,  the  object  being  to  indicate  the 
elements  underljnng  the  great  effects  which  Scott's  novels  produce,  to  trace 
the  sources  of  their  power  and  thereby  to  estimate  their  importance  in  art 

and  their  duration. Would  Mr.  Woodberry's  criticism  be  of  any  value 

to  persons  who  did  not  know  Scott's  novels?     What  value  does  it  have  for 
persons  familiar  with  Scott? 

The  Waverley  Novels  were  the  outstanding  literary  feature,  rivalled  only 
by  Byron's  poetry,  of  the  period  during  which  they  were  produced,  1814- 
1832.  Although  the  more  romantic  novels  of  tlie  series,  such  as  "  Ivanhoe  " 
and  "  Quentin  Durward,"  are  the  most  popular,  the  greatest  without  doubt 
are  those  which  came  before  and  dealt  with  the  more  familiar  Scottish 
environment.  It  is  the  latter  class  that  chiefly  forms  the  basis  of  Professor 
Woodberry's  analysis. 


6 1,2  NOTES 

203.  George  Constable.  In  a  note  to  his  Autobiography  (see  Loclthart'j 
"  Lite  of  Scott."  Chapter  i),  Scott  refers  to  CJeorgc  Constiibie  as  an  old 
friend  of  his  father's.  "  He  had  many  of  the  peculiarities  of  temper  which 
long  afterwards  I  tried  to  develop  in  the  character  of  Jonathan  Oldbuck." 

John  Clerk  of  Eldin  (i  728-181 2).  "  Many  traits  of  the  elder  Clerk  were, 
his  son  has  no  doubt,  embroidered  on  the  character  of  George  Constable  in 
the  composition  of  Jonathan  Oldbuck."  Lockhart's  "  Life  of  Scott," 
Chapter  5. 

The  Antiquary  (1816)  was  the  third  in  the  series  of  Waverley  Novels  and 
had  a  contemporary  setting. 

Laidlaw,  William  (1780-1845),  who  in  1817  became  Scott's  steward  at 
.\l)botsford  and  subsequently  his  amanuensis.  Referring  to  Laidlaw  in  this 
connection,  Lockhart  says  (Chapter  7) :  "I  have  the  best  reason  to  believe 
that  the  kind  and  manly  character  of  Dandie,  the  gentle  and  delicious  one 
of  his  wife,  and  some  at  least  of  the  most  picturesque  peculiarities  of  the 
menage  at  Charlieshopc,  were  filled  up  from  Scott's  observation  of  a  family 
with  one  of  whose  members  he  had,  through  the  best  part  of  his  life,  a  close 
and  affectionate  connection." 

CasUc  Dangerous,  the  last  of  the  Waverley  Novels.  To  refresh  his  memory 
of  the  scenes  in  which  the  action  of  this  novel  is  set,  Scott  paid  a  visit  to 
Douglas  Castle  before  he  began  to  compose. 

204.  Buncc.  a  character  in  "  The  Pirate." 

Sir  Percie  Shafton,  a  character  in  "  The  Legend  of  IMontrose." 

Count  Robert  of  Paris,  the  last  but  one  of  Scott's  novels,  deals  with  the 

court  of  Alexius  I,  Emperor  of  the  East  at  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century. 
Qucnlin  Durward,  the  hero  of  a  romance  set  in  the  France  of  Louis  XL 
Richard  Lionheart.     Richard  I  figures  prominently  in  both  "  Ivanhoe  " 

and  "  The  Talisman." 

205.  A  Jacobite,  a  supporter  of  the  exiled  Stuarts.  The  last  uprising 
in  favor  of  the  descendants  of  James  II,  in  1745,  forms  the  basis  of  "  Wa- 
verley," which  gave  its  name  to  the  whole  series  of  Scott's  romances. 

Ravnswood,  the  hero  in  "  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor." 

207.  the  old  fisherman.     See  p.  415. 

208.  ''forms  more  real,"  etc.  Shelley's  "  Prometheus  Unbound," 
Act  i,  line  748. 

the  form  and  pressure.     Cf.  "  Hamlet,"  Act  iii.  Scene  2. 

Topics:  Dickens's  treatment  of  character  compared  with  Thackeray's, 
George  Eliot's  portraiture  of  rural  life,  Wordsworth's  mountaineers,  The 
treatment  of  nature  in  Hardy's  novels,  Conan  Doyle  as  a  maker  of  plots, 
The  satiric  power  of  Swift,  "  The  .\ncient  Mariner  "  as  a  work  of  art,  \ 
perfect  sonnet.  The  imagery  in  "  Paradise  Lost." 

Mark  Twain.  This  passage  illustrates  an  aspect  of  scientific  criticism, 
—  the  interpretation  of  literature  in  relation  to  its  environment.  Mark 
Twain's  writings  are  not  here  viewed  in  their  conformity  to  the  rules 
of  art,  but  as  an  expression  of  fundamental  national  traits,  as  an  "  assertion 


NOTES  633 

of  the  ordinary  self  of  the  ordinary  American." What  is  the  critic's 

attitude  toward  the  Americanism  of  Mark  Twain?  How  is  the  attitude 
expressed?  Compare  it  with  Mr.  Croly's  "  Lincoln  as  more  than  an  Ameri- 
can." 

209.  Like  the  story.  This  is  an  allusion  to  something  that  has  gone  before 
in  this  essay. 

"  divine  average."      Walt   Whitman,  "  Starting  from  Paumanok,"  line 

Wandering  through  exhumed  Pompeii,  etc.  These  references  to  Mark 
Twain's  foreign  impressions  are  all  to  be  found  in  "  Innocents  Abroad," 
where  they  are  easily  located. 

210.  Corporal  Nym,  a  character  in  "  Henry  V."  For  his  use  of  this 
favorite  phrase  see  Act  ii.  Scene  i. 

the  glory  that  was  Greece,  etc.     Poe,  "  To  Helen  "  (1831). 

Lord  Chesterfield  (1694— 1773),  noted  for  the  elegance  of  his  manners. 
His  "  Letters  to  his  Son  "  constitute  a  code  of  worldly  conduct  in  which  the 
social  graces  assume  great  importance. 

Count  D'Orsay  (1801— 1852),  a  noted  wit  and  dandy. 

Walter  Savage  Landor  (1775-1864).  His  poetry  and  prose  is  character- 
ized by  classical  elegance  of  form. 

211.  Fear  grace,  etc.  See  Walt  Whitman,  "  As  I  Sat  Alone  by  Blue 
Ontario's  Shore,"  line  47:  "Fear  grace — Fear  elegance,  civilization, 
delicatesse." 

Tom  Paine  (i 737-1809).  His  writing  was  a  prominent  force  during  both 
the  American  and  the  French  Revolutions. 

212.  Robert  Ingersoll  (1833-1899),  a  celebrated  American  freethinker. 
813.    The  level  of  the  address  at  Gettysburg.     See  p.  304. 

"  0  Beautiful  !  my  Country  I  "     Lowell,  "  Commemoration  Ode." 

in  the  dead  vast,  etc.     Cf.  "  Handet,"  Act  i.  Scene  2  :  "In  the  dead  vast 

and  middle  of  the  night." 

the  firing  of  a  national  joke,  etc.     Cf.   Emerson's  "  Hymn  Sung  at  the 

Completion  of  the  Battle  Monument  " : 

"  Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world." 

Topics:  Mediaeval  knighthood  as  seen  in  Scott's  romances,  Shakespeare's 
"  Henry  V  "  as  an  expression  of  British  patriotism,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne 
and  Puritanism,  Rudyard  Kipling  and  Imperialism,  Socialistic  ideals  in  the 
novels  of  H.  G.  Wells,  An  analysis  of  the  sectional  flavor  in  some  Ameri- 
can story  writer  —  O.  Henry,  Mary  E.  Wilkins  Freeman,  Sarah  Orne 
Jewett,  Thomas  Nelson  Page,  George  W.  Cable,  Hamlin  Garland. 

Turner's  "  Slave  Ship."  The  description  of  Turner's  "  Slave  Ship  "  by 
Ruskin  corresponds  to  the  review  of  a  literary  work.  The  critic  aims  to 
convey  an  idea  of  the  design,  the  composition,  the  color  and  the  total 
impression  of  the  painting.     Note  the  extent  to  which  preci.sc  detail  is 


6^4  NOTES 

cniplo>  ed  and  how  this  dt-tail  is  transformed  by  means  of  the  highly  poetic 
vocabulary. Examine  the  rhythm  of  the  sentences  and  see  if  they  con- 
form to  Stevenson's  requirement  (p.  626)  of  avoiding  metrical  regularity. 

/  /  / 

Observe  the  endings  of  the  two  paragraphs :    "  The  desolate  heave  of  the 

/  /  /         /  /       /  /  /  / 

sepulchral  waves,!  I  incarnadines  the  multitudinous  sea";  "  the  open,  deep 

/  /  / 
illimitable  sea."  The  poetic  effect  is  here  emphasized  by  the  mingling  of 
Shakespeare's  language,  and  perhaps  Milton's,  with  Ruskin's  ov.n  glowing 
phrases.  One  of  the  e.\-prossions  is  a  bold  transcription  from  "  Macbeth," 
Act  ii.  Scene  2  :  "  the  multitudinous  seas  incarnadine  " ;  another  may  have 
been  suggested  by  "  Paradise  Lost,"  II,  892 :  "  a  dark,  illimitable  ocean 
without  bound." 

Turner,  J.  M.  W.  (1775-1851),  the  greatest  of  English  landscape 
painters.  Ruskin  wrote  his  first  important  book,  "  Modern  Painters,"  for 
the  purpose  of  vindicating  the  greatness  of  Turner's  art  in  comparison  with 
the  classical  French  and  Italian  painters. 

The  Classical  Landscapes  of  Claude.  This  is  a  coldly  analytical  ac- 
count of  an  artist  to  whom  Ruskin  apparently  tries  to  do  justice  though 
he  does  not  admire  him.  Compare  the  detailed  descriptions  of  Claude's 
two  canvases  with  the  description  of  "  The  Slave  Ship."  Compare  the 
accompanying  illustration  to  determine  the  truthfulness  of  Ruskin  in  detail 

and  in  the  general  spirit. Criticise  the  paragraphing  of  the  entire 

selection. 

Claude  Gelee,  also  called  Claude  of  Lorraine,  1600-1682. 

216.  Sahalor  Rosa  (1615-1673),  noted  as  a  painter  of  wild  and  rugged 
landscapes. 

EDITORD^LS 

The  editorial  is  a  kind  of  essay;  it  is  usually  a  paragraph  or  more  of 
comment  based  upon  current  events  or  conditions.  The  term  is  so  loosely 
used,  however,  that  what  is  called  an  editorial  may  be  any  one  of  many  kinds 
of  writing,  including  among  others :  (i)  a  summary  of  news  with  brief  com- 
ment, (2)  a  statement  of  facts  with  explanation,  (3)  a  statement  of  fact  with 
interpretation,  (4)  a  generalization  from  apparently  unrelated  matters, 
(5)  a  character  sketch  or  biographical  notice,  (6)  an  analysis,  for  purposes  of 
argument,  of  opinions  or  arguments  presented  in  current  discussion,  (7)  a 
deductive  application  of  fundamental  principles  to  current  events  or  prob- 
lems, (8)  a  short,  informal  argument,  (g)  a  brief  essay  on  any  topic,  social, 
political,  or  literary,  which  is  timely  and  likely  to  interest  the  readers.  Its 
aim  is  to  give  instruction,  to  form  or  direct  public  opinion,  or  to  induce  action 
based  on  conviction  or  feeling,  or  on  both. 

In  general,  then,  the  editorial  aims  to  make  clear  the  significance  of  cur- 
rent events  or  conditions  and  to  create  or  direct  opinion  based  upon  the 


NOTES  635 

realization  of  that  significance.  The  writer  of  editorials  has  the  advantage 
of  abundant  and  varied  topics  and  of  potential  interest  on  the  part  of  the 
reader.  He  must,  though,  carefully  consider  liis  purpose  and  his  readers 
and  adapt  his  remarks  to  both.  He  must  write  clearly  and  reasonably, 
and  must  be  sure  not  only  that  he  understands  fully  both  facts  and  principles 
involved,  but  also  that  his  opinion  is  not  merely  individual,  but  such  as  to 
offer  to  the  generality  of  readers  some  common  ground  of  agreement. 

To  which  class  mentioned  does  each  editorial  in  this  book  belong?  Are 
the  following  selections  in  other  parts  of  the  book  editorials?  "  Mark 
Twain,"  "  The  Case  Against  the  Single  Tax,"  "  Professor  Huxley's  Lec- 
tures," "  The  Mathematician  and  the  Engineer,"  "  Is  Agriculture  Declin- 
ing? "  "  Direct  Presidential  Nominations."  Select  from  newspapers  or 
magazines  two  or  three  specimens  to  illustrate  each  kind  mentioned. 

ARGUMENT 

A  formal  argument  consists  theoretically  of  Introduction,  Body,  and 
Conclusion.  The  introduction  is  expository  in  tone  and  should  contain 
(i)  a  statement  of  the  significance  of  the  question,  (2)  a  presentation  of 
whatever  facts  and  explanations  may  be  needful  for  an  intelligent  under- 
standing of  the  discussion,  (3)  a  statement  of  the  opposing  views  which  give 
the  occasion  for  a  debate.  (4)  Possibly  in  such  a  statement  some  differences 
of  opinion  will  turn  out  to  be  only  apparent,  or  it  may  be  worth  while,  in 
any  case,  to  point  out  what  is  held  in  common  by  both  sides ;  but  the  cul- 
mination of  the  introduction  should  be  (5)  the  resolution  of  the  conflicting 
opinions  into  a  few  precisely  phrased  questions,  which  are  called  Special 
Issues.  The  Body  of  the  argument  then  takes  up  the  Special  Issues  one  by 
one  and  adduces  evidence  either  in  support  or  refutation,  while  the  Con- 
clusion may  sum  up  the  argument,  particularly  if  the  discussion  has  been  a 
long  one,  or  again  emphasize  the  importance  of  the  issue.  .'\n  illustration  of 
an  argument  according  to  the  plan  just  outlined  may  be  seen  in  the  student 
Brief  on  the  Hetch-Hetchy  question  in  Appendix  I.  But  it  will  be  found 
in  practice  that  argument  very  rarely  conforms  precisely  to  such  a  rigid 
scheme,  and  often  departs  from  it  very  widely.  The  argument  proper  may, 
for  example,  invade  the  introduction  when  a  statement  of  facts  carries  with 
it  an  implied  weight  of  proof,  or  the  reverse  process  may  be  followed,  as 
when  certain  explanations  of  fact  are  withheld  till  they  can  serve  effectively 
to  support  a  contention.  A  brief,  like  the  model  mentioned,  is  always 
desirable,  but  in  writing  out  the  argument  one  may  gain  in  naturalness,  in 
grace,  and  in  persuasive  effectiveness  by  concealing  the  stiff  skeleton.  It 
is  not  the  happiest  method  of  expanding  briefs  which  merely  rewrites  the 
original  statements  in  longer  lines. 


636 


NOTES 
INTRODUCTION 


The  Three  Hypotheses.  Huxley's  object  in  the  scries  of  lectures  in- 
troduccil  by  this  i)assage  is  to  set  up  a  theory  of  the  world  which  is  hostile 
to  popular  religious  prejudice.  The  introduction,  it  will  be  observed, 
consists  of  a  statement  of  the  significance  of  the  question,  an  c.xi)lanation  of 
the  conflicting  theories  concerning  it,  and  the  putting  of  the  question.  Is 
Huxley's  statement  of  the  opposing  views  colored  by  his  own  convictions? 
How  does  he  minimize  the  shock  tP  the  prejudices  of  his  audience?     See 

in  this  connection  "  Professor  Huxley's  Lectures,"  p.  248. Make  nn 

outline  of  the  introduction  in  Brief  form. 

232.    Pascal,  Blaise  (1623-1662),  French  mathematician  and  philosopher. 

235.  Hiitton.  James  (i 726-1 797),  Scottish  geologist. 
Lycll.  Sir  Charles  (1797-1875),  British  geologist. 

236.  llie  English  Divina  Commcdla.     See  note  on  Dante,  p.  622. 

238.  undifferentiated  protoplasmic  matter.  See  "  On  the  Physical  Basis 
of  Life,"  p.  90. 

Letter  to  General  McClellan.  Notice  that  this  brief  series  of 
naked  sentences  contains  a  statement  of  the  situation,  the  opposing  opinions, 
and  the  questions  at  issue ;  that  the  five  questions  form  the  pegs  for  a  com- 
plete argument. 

The  Case  against  the  Single  Tax.  What  elements  of  an  introduction  does 
this  passage  contain?  Obser\e  that  the  writer  states  only  the  opinions  of 
those  who  favor  the  Single  Tax.  Is  there  any  advantage  in  withholding  at 
this  point  the  opposing  set  of  \-iews?  Do  you  think  that  the  fourth  para- 
graph betrays  the  writer's  bias? For  another  definition  of  the  Single 

Tax  see  p.  13. 

For  an  introduction  with  full  definitions  and  elaborate  historical  material 
see  Taft's  "  The  Monroe  Doctrine  "  and  the  accompanying  outline. 

Topics:  The  encouragement  of  a  United  States  merchant  marine.  The 
conservation  of  natural  resources.  The  national  ownership  of  public  utili- 
ties, The  Federal  control  of  trade-unions,  The  Initiative,  Referendum  and 
Recall,  The  recall  of  judicial  decisions,  The  value  of  municipal  markets, 
The  control  of  immigration,  The  regulation  of  the  tarifl,  An  international 
court  of  arbitration.  The  indeterminate  sentence.  The  commission  form  of 
government.  The  reh  tive  value  of  the  horse  and  automobile  for  army 
transportation,  National  prohibition.  The  checking  of  private  incomes, 
Simplified  spelling.  Coeducation,  Evidence  of  life  in  Mars,  Our  policy  in 
the  Philippines,  Capital  punishment.  The  case  for  feminism.  The  value  of 
Syndicalism,  Physical  and  moral  influences  of  war. 

EVIDENCE 

Council  Government.  This  is  a  section  of  an  argument  which  should 
be  studied  for  the  use  of  evidence.     The  first  part  is  instructive  as  show- 


NOTES  637 

mg  the  necessity  of  being  on  one's  guard  against  hasty  conclusions.  It  is 
the  fallacy  of  post  hoc  ergo  propter  hoc  which  the  writer  uncovers.  Because 
certain  improvements  have  followed  on  certain  changes  it  does  not  follow 
necessarily  that  the  improvements  are  due  to  the  changes.  The  writer 
refutes  the  assumption  in  a  general  way  and  then  proceeds  to  adduce  detailed 
evidence  to  confirm  the  doubts  which  he  has  raised  in  tlie  first  part  of  the 
article.  Observe  the  method  of  substantiating  statements  of  fact  by  refer- 
ence to  sources  and  authorities. 

Professor  Huxley's  Lectures.  See  "  The  Three  Hypotheses,"  p.  232. 
This  article  is  important  for  its  lesson  in  the  use  of  the  argument  from 
authority.  Young  writers  are  especially  prone  to  attribute  weight  to  opin- 
ions without  regard  to  a  particular  person's  qualification  for  holding  an 
opinion.  Mr.  Godkin  advances  his  principle  in  the  fourth  paragraph,  but 
it  is  his  thorough  and  unflinching  application  of  the  test  to  an  educated  and 
highly  respected  class  of  persons  that  affords  the  happiest  possible  illustra- 
tion of  the  necessity  for  examining  the  credentials  of  a  witness  before  he  is 

admitted  into  court. Study  the  use  of  authorities  in  the  "  Defence  of 

the  House  of  Lords  "  (p.  271),  "  The  Intellectual  Powers  of  Woman  "  (p. 
276),  "The  Nation's  Pledge"  (p.  223),  and  in  the  student  Brief  in 
Appendix  I. 

249.  Moody,  D.  L.  (1837-1899),  a  popular  Evangelical  preacher. 

250.  Professor  Tyndall,  John  (1820-1893),  the  eminent  naturalist  who 
ranks  close  to  Darwin  and  Huxley  among  the  propagators  of  evolutionary 
doctrine. 

257.  Principal  Dawson,  Sir  John  William  (1820-1899),  Principal  at 
McGill  University  in  Montreal,  was  by  profession  a  geologist  but  occasion- 
ally wrote  on  the  relation  of  geology  to  theology. 

St.  George  Mivart  (1827-1900),  a  distinguished  biologist  who  attempted 
to  reconcile  the  theory  of  evolution  with  his  Catholic  faith. 

BODY 

Speech  on  Old-Age  Pensions.  This  is  a  speech  delivered  in  the  course 
of  a  Parliamentary  debate.  The  introduction  here  is  not  of  the  usual  kind, 
being  intended  only  to  link  on  to  the  preceding  speech.  The  speaker,  how- 
ever, takes  care  to  state  what  seem  to  him  to  be  the  important  questions 

involved. Are  the  objections  to  the  various  features  of  the  measure 

sufficiently  substantiated?  Find  out  something  about  the  speaker  by  which 
you  may  test  his  fitness  for  expressing  such  opinions  as  he  advances. 

Examine  the  speech  as  an  example  of  oral  English.  Notice  its  graceful 
fluency,  its  tone  of  easy  but  dignified  conversation,  its  refined  moderation 
unalloyed  with  any  rhetorical  flourishes.     Look  up  some  of  the  speeches  in 

the  Congressional  Record  for  comparison. Examine  the  structure  of  the 

speech  in  connection  with  the  outline  of  the  editors.  Notice  the  ease  of  the 
logical  transitions. 


638  NOTES 

Defence  of  the  House  of  Lords.  This,  like  the  prcccdinR  speech, 
is  addressed  to  an  audience  rcciuiring  no  preliminary  explanation  of  the 
question.     The  argument  is  based  on  e.xample,  on  authority,  and  on  direct 

e.xperience. Analyze  the  structure  and  make  a  Brief  of  the  argument. 

Compare  the  tone  and  style  with  Mr.  Balfour's  speech. 

272.  ^fr.  Brycc,  James,  statesman  and  scholar,  and  one-time  British 
Ambassador  to  the  United  States.  Selections  from  a  numl)cr  of  his  writings 
appear  in  this  volume.     His  chief  work  is  "  The  .American  Commonwealth." 

REFUTATION 

Refutation  consists  in  pointing  out  the  errors  of  statement  or  fallacies 
of  reasoning  in  the  arguments  of  an  opponent.  Sometimes  the  process 
is  purely  destructive,  as  in  the  beginning  of  "  Council  Government  versus 
Mayor  Government  ''  or  in  "  Professor  Hu.xley's  Lectures  "  or  in  "  The 
Intellectual  Powers  of  Woman."  Sometimes  it  is  hard  to  distinguish  from 
direct  argument,  as  the  disproof  of  an  opponent's  statement  may  involve 
the  introduction  of  evidence  in  support  of  one's  own  contention.  The  latter 
is  true  of  "  The  Mathematician  and  the  Engineer  "  in  which  the  writer,  while 
he  is  denying  the  contention  that  the  engineer  is  dependent  on  the  mathe- 
matician, supplies  e\-idence  to  show  that  the  engineer  is  /wdependent  of  the 
mathematician.  The  same  can  be  said  of  e.x-President  Taft's  argument  on 
the  Monroe  Doctrine  which,  in  the  course  of  overthrowing  a  series  of  objec- 
tions, establishes  the  positive  value  of  the  Doctrine. 

The  Intellectual  Powers  of  Woman.  The  writer  of  this  article 
undertakes  no  more  than  to  establish  that  the  common  assumption  of  wo- 
man's natural  and  necessary  intellectual  inferiority  is  founded  on  prejudice 
and  fallacy.  He  does  not  attempt  to  assert  the  intellectual  equality  of  wo- 
man with  man  because  his  purpose  is  strictly  refutation.  After  an  intro- 
ducton.'  e.xplanation  of  the  \'iew  which  he  wishes  to  combat,  he  examines 
the  argument  that  women  are  incapable  of  the  highest  intellectual  attain- 
ments because  they  have  never  yet  displaj-ed  them.  He  tries  to  reduce 
this  argument  to  an  absurdity  by  a  series  of  analogies  from  history  and  by 
emphasizing  some  neglected  factors  in  the  situation.  He  then  points  out 
how,  by  a  perversion  of  reason,  the  idea  has  gained  currency  of  woman's 
inability  to  attain  even  the  middle  heights,  and  this  prejudice  he  opposes 
by  an  appeal  to  facts. 

Note  the  means  by  which  the  threads  of  the  argument  are  held  together. 
How  is  the  conclusion  of  the  first  part  of  the  discussion  marked?  Observe 
the  frequent  reiteration  of  the  central  idea  and  the  use  of  summarj'  in  the 
final  stages  of  the  argument.  What  is  gained  by  the  repetition?  Is  it 
ever  excessive  ?     What  are  the  chief  stylistic  virtues  of  the  essay  ? 

278.  Disquisitioiies  Arithmetics  (1801),  a  work  which  first  attracted 
attention  to  Karl  Friedrich  Gauss  (1777-1855)  who  later  became  eminent  as 
a  mathematician. 


NOTES  639 

283.  Fenelon,  Francois  (1651-1715),  French  bishop,  author  of  a  famous 
educational  novel,  "  Telemaque." 

Mrs.  Somerville,  Mary  (1780-1872),  held  a  dignified  position  among 
British  mathematicians. 

Mine.  Kovalewski,  Sonia  (1850-1891),  a  Russian  woman,  was  professor 
of  mathematics  at  the  University  of  Stockholm  and  attained  the  highest 
honors  of  her  profession. 

284.  LeibfiUz,  Gottfried  Wilhelm  (1646-1716),  the  great  German  phi- 
losopher and  mathematician. 

285.  ex  vi  termini,  from  the  very  meaning  of  the  expression. 

289.  Kant,  Immanuel  (i 724-1804),  probably  the  greatest  philosopher  of 
modern  times. 

290.  Mr.  Gosse,  Edmund,  a  distinguished  living  English  critic. 

Mary  Cassatt,  a  painter  of  American  birth  residing  in  Paris.  She  exhibited 
in  New  York  in  1898. 

Mine.  Demont-Brcton,  Virginie,  whose  paintings  have  won  high  prizes 
and  are  to  be  found  in  many  European  galleries. 

291.  Hermann  Grimm  (1828-iqoi),  a  well-known  German  critic. 

The  Mathematician  and  the  Engineer.  In  both  this  and  the  next  selection 
a  certain  view  is  combated  by  an  attempt  to  establish  the  opposite  view,  so 

that  it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish  these  from  direct  argument. Criticise 

the  argument  that  the  services  of  the  mathematician  are  becoming  of  less 
importance  to  the  engineer  because  the  engineer  is  acquiring  mastery  of 
mathematical  methods.  Are  any  of  the  points  too  hastily  dismissed?  Is 
the  chief  contention  satisfactorily  supported  ? 

294.    Lord  Kelvin,  William  Thomson  (1824-1907),  the  great  physicist. 

Popular  Control  of  National  Wealth.  This  illustrates  a  method  of  sum- 
marizing the  points  of  an  argument  and  then  refuting  objections. Do 

you  approve  of  the  style  of  this  article  in  respect  both  to  diction  and  sentence- 
form? 

PERSUASION 

Persuasion  is  not  to  be  regarded  as  a  special  section  in  an  argument,  but  as 
a  quality  which  pervades  its  entire  fabric.  It  is  nothing  but  the  art  of  so  han- 
dling the  material,  so  adapting  it  to  the  audience  as  most  readily  to  secure  the 
desired  effect.  Persuasive  skill  is  not,  as  is  sometimes  imagined,  merely  a 
matter  of  emotional  appeal.  It  is  dependent  on  all  the  factors  which  are 
termed  p.sychological,  on  a  knowledge  of  the  prejudices  and  interests  of  the 
audience,  of  the  motives  by  which  they  can  be  influenced,  and  of  the  ideals 
to  which  they  will  respond.  A  knowledge  of  these  factors  determines  the 
entire  conduct  of  an  argument  —  the  arrangement  of  its  parts,  the  throwing 
of  the  emphasis,  and  even  the  kind  of  evidence  that  shall  be  used.  The  test 
of  persuasiveness  should  be  applicable  to  practically  any  argument.  See 
the  notes  on  "  The  Organization  of  Farmers  "  and  on  "  The  Social  Value  of 
the  College-Bred." 


640  NOTES 

The  two  addresses  given  under  Persuasion  represent  tlic  appeal  to  an 
audience  in  the  simplest  form.  Notice  the  manner  in  which  the  speaker 
gets  into  touch  with  his  hearers  and  how,  once  their  attention  is  gained,  he 
carries  them  up  to  the  higher  moral  levels.  Both  these  addresses  arc  excel- 
lent examples  of  how  elevation  of  tone  may  be  attained  by  a  careful  selection 
of  common  words. 

ELEMENTS   IN   COMBINATION 

The  Monroe  Doctrine.  This  is  the  first  of  a  series  of  lectures  delivered  by 
e.x-President  Taft  on  the  subject,  "  The  United  States  and  Peace."  How 
does  the  argument  presented  in  this  article  relate  itself  to  the  general  sulj- 

ject? To  what  extent  is  the  structure  of  the  article  reducible  to  the 

conventional  form  of  an  argument?  Does  the  historical  review  with  which 
the  Introduction  opens  have  a  direct  bearing  on  the  argument?  Reduce  the 
four  questions  involved  in  the  discussion  to  a  single  dominant  issue.  Observe 
that  Mr.  Taft  defines  the  limits  of  the  Monroe  Doctrine  after  stating  the 
objections  of  its  opponents.  What  is  the  advantage  of  this  arrangement? 
E.xamine  the  argument  against  our  cooperating  with  the  A.  B.  C.  powers 
in  the  light  of  events  of  19 14. 

308.  27/e  Holy  Alliance  was  formed  by  the  countries  mentioned,  in  1815, 
immediately  after  the  downfall  of  Napoleon,  for  the  purpose  of  counter- 
acting the  movement  against  the  established  or  so-called  Legitimate  mou- 
archs  to  which  the  career  of  Napoleon  had  given  a  strong  impetus. 

309.  the  policy  was  insisted  on,  etc.  This  dispute  arose  in  1895,  during 
Cleveland's  second  term,  and  was  settled  in  November,  1896.  Mr.  Olncy 
was  then  Secretary  of  State. 

310.  Canning,  George  (1770-1827),  an  influential  statesman,  at  various 
times  Foreign  Secretary  in  the  British  Cabinet.  His  interest  in  establishing 
the  Monroe  Doctrine  is  clearly  and  forcibly  expressed  by  a  sentence  in  one 
of  his  speeches  (December  12,  1826)  in  which  he  explains  his  reason  for 
recognizing  the  independence  of  the  Spanish- American  republics:  "I 
resolved  that  if  France  had  Spain,  it  should  not  be  Spain  with  the  Indies. 
I  called  the  New  World  into  existence  to  redress  the  balance  of  the  Old." 

INFORMAL  ARGUMENT 

The  distinction  between  formal  and  informal  argument  is  somewhat 
arbitrary  and  no  sharp  line  between  the  two  can  be  drawn.  But  an  analysis 
of  the  selections  under  each  head  will  reveal  a  considerable  difTerence  in 
spirit  and  method.  Formal  argument  is  commonly  concerned  with  ques- 
tions capable  of  direct  proof  or  refutation  and  requires  that  its  contentions 
shall  be  supported  by  material  evidence,  while  informal  argument,  being 
usually  the  expression  of  an  opinion  or  a  conviction,  needs  to  be  justified 
only  by  a  process  of  general  or  theoretical  reasoning.     The  latter  is  the  form 


NOTES  641 

of  argument  which  people  are  most  commonly  called  upon  to  employ  and  its 
most  familiar  illustration  is  to  be  found  in  newspaper  editorials. 

Is  Agriculture  Declining?  In  this  passage  Mr.  Butterfield  states  his 
reasons  for  doubting  the  frequent  assertions  about  the  decline  of  rural  popu- 
lation. He  does  not  attempt  to  prove  that  the  population  is  not  declining, 
but  only  presents  a  series  of  considerations  which  make  his  supposition 
highly  plausible.  — —  Study  the  structure  of  the  paragraph.  What  is  the 
effect  of  the  first  and  last  sentences?     Does  the  beginning  seem  too  abrupt? 

324.  Josiah  Strong  states,  etc.  It  is  desirable  in  expository  and  argu- 
mentative writing  to  make  the  references  more  specific.  This  writer  com- 
mits the  same  fault  in  the  passage  on  p.  327. 

State  Control  and  the  Individual.  N^ote  the  use  of  concrete  and  lively 
illustration  in  aiding  an  abstract  argument. 

The  Organization  of  Farmers  and  The  Organization  of  Labor.  The  first 
of  these  arguments  is  addressed  to  an  audience  of  farmers,  the  second  not  to 
trade-unions,  but  to  students  of  government.  Compare  the  two  for  the  kind 
of  argument  employed  and  the  kind  of  motives  appealed  to.  Observe  the 
thoroughgoing  logic  of  the  second,  the  fearless  facing  of  all  the  facts,  the 
acceptance  of  every  condition  that  the  defence  of  trade-unions  implies,  and 
how  the  writer  turns  his  concessions  to  the  advantage  of  his  argument. 
See  the  note  on  Persuasion,  p.  639. 

Direct  Presidential  Nominations.  Tlie  paragraphing  and  the  sentence 
structure  of  this  article  should  be  subjected  to  careful  criticism. 

DESCRIPTION 

The  elements  that  chiefly  contribute  to  the  value  of  a  description  are 
minute  and  accurate  observation  of  detail  and  the  unification  of  details  to 
form  a  total  impression.  Unity  in  a  word  picture  depends  on  the  same  prin- 
ciples as  it  does  in  any  work  of  art — the  selection  of  salient  features  and  their 
arrangement  in  a  harmonious  composition  around  some  feature  of  central 
interest.  A  definite  order  of  procedure,  which  is  termed  point  of  view,  will 
assure  the  coherence  of  the  parts.  One  of  the  obvious  means  is  successive 
arrangement  in  time  or  space,  but  sometimes  an  instantaneous  view  is 
desirable  and  may  be  presented  by  means  of  what  is  called  the  dominant  or 
fundamental  image.  But  unity  in  description  generally  requires  more  than 
an  orderly  plan.  Being  directed  toward  an  aesthetic  end,  it  depends  on  the 
creation  and  the  preservation  of  a  mood.  The  attainment  of  a  unified  emo- 
tional effect  is  characterized  as  dominant  tone. 

SENSES 

Sunrise  at  Port-of-Spain  and  A  Tropical  Sunset.  Both  these  subjects 
are  sufficiently  hackneyed.  How  does  the  writer  give  them  reality  and 
individuality?     What  is  the  general  impression  produced  by  each ?     What 


642  NOTES 

are  the  means  by  wliich  the  effects  of  unity  and  totality  are  attained? 
Study  the  vocabulary  for  avoidance  of  monotony  and  the  expression  of  fine 
distinctions.     Does  the  expression  ever  seem  overwrought? 

Cloud  Effects.  Ruskin  is  here  describing  a  number  of  different  effects. 
Does  he  unify  them  all  in  a  single  impression?  How?  Does  he  have  unity 
of  structure?  See  how  the  point  of  view  is  indicated  and  maintained,  how 
the  transitions  are  marked.     What  is  the  effect  of  the  conclusion? 

Compare  the  style  of  the  sentences  here  with  those  in  Lafcadio  Hearn. 
What  do  they  contribute  to  the  emotional  effect?     Notice  the  phrase  "  foun- 

/        /  /        /      / 

dationless  and  inaccessible  "  and  compare  the  notes  on  pp.  626and634.  What 
is  the  effect  of  beginning  successive  sentences  with  and  or  and  then? 

342.  Atlantis,  a  fabled  island  among  the  Greeks  lying  in  the  ocean  out- 
side the  Pillars  of  Hercules  (Gibraltar). 

The  Yellow-breasted  Chat.  The  interest  of  this  passage  is  in  its  attempt  to 
suggest  a  sound  by  imitation.  In  "  Kusa-Hibari  "  (p.  394)  a  sound  is 
described  by  its  effect  on  the  mood.  See  also  "  The  Sound  of  the  Vacuum- 
cleaner  "  in  the  AppendLx. 

344.  skimmcrton,  a  mock  ceremony  once  common  in  parts  of  England 
in  which  mock  music  was  a  prominent  feature. 

Odors  of  Vegetation.  In  this  description  observe  the  selection  of  one 
dominant  element  to  characterize  the  odor  of  each  season. 

346.  "  balm  of  a  thousand  flowers."  Cf.  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor," 
Act  v,  Scene  5,  line  56,  "  With  Juice  of  balm  and  every  precious  flower." 

The  Sound  of  Summer.  This  is  an  example  of  the  most  acutely  sensitive 
description.  Does  it  impress  you  as  being  fanciful?  See  "  The  Physical 
Basis  of  Life,"  p.  94. 

The  Ploughing.     This  is  an  analysis  of  a  complex  of  sensations. 

LANDSCAPES 

Cape  Cod.  This  is  striking  for  the  boldness  of  the  fundamental  image  and 
the  detail  with  which  it  is  carried  out. 

The  Upper  Mississippi.  The  description  of  a  vast  panorama  is  here 
generalized  by  means  of  a  series  of  rapid  strokes. 

353.  Hennepin,  Louis  ic.  1640-c.  1701),  the  companion  of  La  Salle  in  his 
explorations  of  Illinois  and  the  Mississippi  River.  He  made  a  voyage  him- 
self from  the  mouth  of  the  Illinois  River  up  to  the  site  of  Minneapolis. 

In  the  Sahel.  This  is  a  panorama  done  in  greater  detail  than  the  preced- 
ing, but  here  also  the  generalizing  method  is  important.  Observe  how  the 
writer  conceives  his  description  in  terms  of  the  painter's  art  —  his  ref- 
erences to  color,  design,  and  composition.  What  elements  of  technique  in 
this  description  are  outside  the  scope  of  the  painter  ?  What  is  the  dominant 
tone  of  this  description?  How  is  its  prominence  sustained?  What  is  the 
force  of  the  opening  sentence  in  relation  to  the  dominant  tone?     What  is 


NOTES  643 

the  effect  of  the  historical  allusions  to  the  ancient  life  of  the  region  ?  What  is 
the  effect  of  the  last  sen>.ence?  Study  the  movement  of  the  periods  in  rela- 
tion to  the  mood  of  tbe  description.  Contrast  it  with  the  movement  of 
Ruskin's  periods. 

356.  Where  Marius  found  hiding.  Gaius  Marius  (155-86  B.C.),  the 
Roman  general  who  conquered  Jugurtha,  was  defeated  in  a  civil  war  by 
Sulla  and  escaped  to  Carthage. 

A  Pine  Forest.  Notice  here  the  use  of  point  of  view  to  suggest  the  magni- 
tude of  the  trees. 

A  Grove  of  Sequoias.  Here  magnitude  is  suggested  by  a  different  device. 
Is  the  dominant  tone  consistently  maintained  in  the  last  two  para- 
graphs ? 

The  Spirit  of  the  Garden.  The  interest  here  is  in  the  interpretation,  in 
the  attributijn  of  an  emotional  signilicance  to  the  elements  of  nature.  Is 
the  fanciful  phrasing  permitted  to  obsciu-e  or  distort  the  scientific  truth? 
Compare  in  this  respect  with  "  The  Sound  of  Summer,"  p.  347.  What  is 
the  effect  of  the  personal  note  ? 

The  Scenery  of  the  Lakes.  Notice  the  skilful  manner  in  which  point 
of  view  and  fundamental  image  are  managed.  What  is  the  character  of 
the  progression  in  the  successive  paragraphs?  Does  Wordsworth  enhance 
the  impression  of  the  scenery  he  is  describing  by  the  coloring  of  his  vocabu- 
lary or  the  movement  of  his  sentences  ?  Compare  the  passage  in  this  respect 
with  the  descriptions  of  Ruskin,  Lafcadio  Hearn,  and  Mr.  Woodberry. 

CITIES 

Valparaiso.  The  description  of  the  physical  outlines  of  a  city  is  not  dif- 
ferent from  that  of  any  other  landscape.  In  "  Valparaiso  "  notice  the 
variety  of  points  of  view  and  the  progression  from  the  colorless  to  the  pic- 
turesque effect. 

In  Front  of  the  Royal  Exchange.  This  is  a  description  of  the  life  and 
motion  of  a  city.  Notice  the  uniformity  of  effect  produced  in  the  treatment 
of  movement,  of  color,  and  of  sound  —  the  manner  in  which  these  elements 
blend  with  the  description  of  the  spirit  of  the  multitude  in  the  third  para- 
graph and  the  transition  to  the  reflective  strain  of  the  fourth. 

BUILDINGS 

English  Cottages  and  The  Keeper's  House  are  descriptions  of  a  simple  and 
homely  exterior  and  interior.  Observe  the  manner  in  which  character  and 
individuality  is  given  to  each.  The  dominant  note  is  expressed  in  the  first 
sentence  by  Ruskin.  What  is  the  dominant  note  in  Hardy's  description? 
Does  the  precision  of  detail  enhance  the  effect  ? 

Exposition  Hall  and  Second-Story  Bungalow  Apartments.  These  are 
specimens  of  purely  mechanical  description  such  as  is  common  in  technical 


644  NOTES 

journals.  The  virtues  required  are  those  of  exposition  —  clearness  and 
accuracy.  In  both  these  descriptions  the  order  of  the  details  should  be 
studied. 

The  Doctor's  Home.  .\  house  is  here  described  to  harmonize  with  and  to 
suggest  the  character  of  its  occupant.     Note  the  use  of  contrasting  details. 

The  st>le  is  somewhat  loose,  but  should  be  considered  in  its  dramatic 

application  as  the  tone  of  familiar  speech. 

Lander's  Cottage.  Though  Poe  notes  the  picturesqucsness  of  the  effect, 
this  description  is  rather  to  be  studied  for  the  precision  with  which  a  great 
number  of  arciiitectural  details  are  presented  from  a  fixed  point  of  \iew. 
Do  the  details  combine  in  a  homogeneous  impression  ?  Is  the  effect  of  pic- 
turesquencss  produced  b}-  the  description  itself? 

The  Ancient  Palace  at  Jeypore.  This  description  is  intended  to  suggest 
the  spirit  of  the  place.  It  is  done  in  part  by  allusions  to  the  ancient  life 
contrasting  with  the  visible  signs  of  decay.  Observe  the  opening  phrase 
and  the  concluding  sentence  in  relation  to  the  tone  of  the  whole  de- 
scription. 

382.   Kali,  a  Hindu  goddess  of  death  and  destruction. 

Viollel-le-Duc,  Eugene  Emanuel  (1814-1879),  a  French  architect,  noted 
chiefly  for  his  wTitings  on  architectural  art. 

St.  Mark's.  This  is  the  most  famous  piece  of  architectural  description 
in  English  prose.  Although  the  passage  is  long,  the  cathedral  itself  is  not 
described  in  great  detail.  Do  3'ou  think  the  approach  to  St.  Mark's  is 
given  with  too  much  elaboration?  Does  Ruskin  succeed  in  making  the 
reader  forget  that  he  is  going  to  view  a  splendid  cathedral?  Ruskin  wishes 
to  describe  the  exterior  and  two  interiors  of  St.  Mark's.  A  natural  progres- 
sion would  lead  him  from  the  exterior  into  the  church  itself,  after  which  the 
Baptistery  would  come  as  an  anticlimax.  Notice  his  artifice  for  avoiding 
this  difficulty.  Do  you  think  it  is  too  transparent?  Notice  the  manner 
in  which  Ruskin  conveys  an  instantaneous  total  impression  of  both  exterior 

and  interior. Study  the  imagery  to  see  how  Ruskin's  expressions  at  the 

same  time  that  they  describe  convey  a  rich  poetic  suggestion,  as,  for  example, 
"  the  crests  of  the  arches  break  into  a  marble  foam,  and  toss  themselves  far 
into  the  skj-  in  flashes  and  wreaths  of  sculptured  spray."  Observe  also  how 
the  splendor  of  the  effect  is  sustained  by  the  elaborate  rhythm  of  the  sen- 
tences. 

385.  Vendita  Frittole  e  Liquori,  a  shop  in  which  cakes  and  light  beverages 
are  sold. 

387.  "  their  bluest  veins  to  kiss."  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  Act  ii, 
Scene  5. 

388.  "of  them   that  sell  doves."     "  St.  Matthew,"  xxi,  12. 

the  Austrian  bands,  etc.  It  should  be  remembered  that  at  this  time  Italy 
was  under  subjection  to  Austria. 

389.  Andrea  Datulolo  (1307-1354),  the  last  of  a  family  of  great  Venetian 
Doges.     He  wrote  "The  Annals  of  Venice  to  1280." 


NOTES  645 

390.    "  Thrones,  Dominations,^'  etc.     "  Paradise  Lost,"  V,  601. 
"  Every  tree  that  bringeth  not  forth,"  etc.     "  St.  Matthew,"  vii,  19. 

ANIMALS 

The  Walrus.  Each  aspect  in  the  description  of  the  walrus  gains  in  empha- 
sis by  contrast  with  the  other.  —  Both  the  paragraphs  are  notably  well  massed 
and  the  transition  between  them  clearly  marked.  This  is  intended  for  a 
scientific  description.     Should  you  call  the  vocabulary  cold  or  severe? 

Kusa-Hibari.  Wherein  does  the  chief  interest  of  this  description  consist? 
What  is  the  purpose  of  the  first  paragraph  ?   of  the  last  ? 

The  Hen  Hawks.  How  are  the  descriptions  of  the  various  movements  of 
the  bird  unified?  The  suggestion  of  motion,  more  obviously  than  of  any 
other  quality,  invites  the  assistance  of  sentence-rhythm.  Does  Mr.  Bur- 
roughs avail  himself  of  such  help  ? 

A  Trout.  Would  the  omission  of  any  feature  in  this  description  promote 
unity  ? 

PERSONS 

In  descriptions  of  persons  the  physical  features  are  presented  in  a  manner 
to  suggest  the  character  of  the  subject.  It  is  therefore  necessary  that  the 
details  chosen  shall  be  characteristic.  The  unifying  force  which  is  repre- 
sented in  sense-description  and  landscape  by  dominant  tone  or  fundamental 
image  is  supplied  in  a  portrait  by  the  dominant  trait  or  feature. 

Sir  Richard  Grenville  (1541-1591),  famous  for  his  fight  in  The  Revenge 
against  fifteen  Spanish  galleons  (see  Tennyson's  ballad,  "  The  Revenge  "). 
This  is  an  example  of  a  portrait  drawn  in  complete  repose.  The  order  of 
analysis  is  from  the  more  prominent  to  the  less.  Notice  the  manner  of 
subordinating  the  less  important  features.     Is  the  paragraph  well  massed  ? 

399.   Spctiser,  Edmund  (1552-1599),  author  of  the  "  Faerie  Queene." 

Alva,  Duke  of  (i 508-1 583),  the  great  Spanish  general,  notorious  for  the 
harshness  of  his  campaigns  against  Holland. 

Parma.  Alexander  Farnese,  Duke  of  Parma  (1545-1592),  also  played  a 
prominent  part  in  the  subjugation  of  the  Netherlands  under  Philij)  II. 

Francis    Drake    (c.    1 545-1 595),    the    hero    of    the    battle    against    the 

Spanish  Armada  (1588)  and  of  many  other  naval  exploits. This  is  an 

example  of  a  likeness  suggested  by  a  succession  of  sharp  strokes.  Examine 
carefully  all  the  details  in  the  first  two  sentences  to  see  whetlicr  they  justify 
the  characterization  of  the  last. 

John  Sterling   (1806-1844),  a  writer  whose  present  reputation  is  due 

entirely  to  the  admirable  biography  which  Carlyle  wrote  of  him This 

and  the  three  following  portraits  are  examples  of  character  description  and 
analysis  in  the  service  of  biography.  In  Carlyle's  description  of  Sterling 
the  physical  and  mental  features  arc  inseparably  blended.  Noteworthy  is 
the  degree  of  fineness  to  which  the  analysis  is  carried,  the  richness  of  vocabu- 


646  NOTES 

lary  employed  lo  fix  the  traits  of  a  cliaracter  essentially  simple  b.\-  showing 
tlieni  in  a  \ariety  of  aspects. 

Percy  Bysshe   Shelley   (i 792-1822),  the  English  lyric  poet  and  Father 

Prout,  Trancis  Sylvester  Mahony  (1804-1866),  the  humorist. Notice 

that  the  features  are  presented  in  exactly  the  opposite  order  in  these  two 
sketches.  Does  citlier  arrangement  seem  the  more  natural  or  the  more 
effective  ? 

Edward  I  (i  239-1307).  This  is  an  example  of  the  purel}-  anal^^tic  delinea- 
licn  of  character. 

An  Accountant.  This  sketch  suggests  a  class  of  writing  which  was  much 
in  vogue  in  the  seventeenth  century,  known  as  the  Character.  A  character 
was  intended  to  represent  an  entire  class  of  persons,  to  embody  all  the  traits 
which  distinguished  his  class.  What  traits  in  this  character  are  tj-pical  of 
an  accountant?     What  traits  are  individual?     What  is  the  effect  of  the  last 

sentence? Observe  that  the  passage  is  written  in  a  vein  of  playful 

solemnity  and  quaintness.     Is  the  style  suited  to  the  subject? 

405.  "thought  an  accountant,"  etc.  Fielding  in  his  novel  of  ''Joseph 
.Andrews"  (Book  III,  Chapter  5)  says  of  Parson  Adams:  "He  thought 
a  schoolmaster  the  greatest  character  in  the  world,  and  himself  the  greatest 
of  all  schoolmasters." 

'with  other  notes  than  /-o  the  Orphean  lyre.     "  Paradise  Lost,"  III,  17. 

406.  "  sweet  breasts,"  suggested  by  an  epithet  in  Middleton's  play, 
"  More  Dissemblers  besides  Women  " :  "as  sweet-breasted  a  page  as  ever 
lay  at  his  master's  feet." 

like  lord  Midas,  whose  ears  were  changed  to  those  of  an  ass  for  saj^ing  that 
Pan  played  better  than  Apollo. 

407.  "  greatly  find  a  quarrel  in  a  straw."  "  Hamlet,"  Act  iv,  Scene  4, 
line  55. 

A  Portrait.  The  style  of  this  portrait  suggests  very  careful  and  exquisite 
chiselling.  It  seems  quite  without  any  striving  for  effect,  but  an  effect  of 
dignity  and  nobility  is  attained  by  the  natural  simplicity  of  the  manner. 

Charles  Cheeryble,  Harold  Skimpole,  Mr.  George.  When  the  dominant 
trait  in  a  character  is  so  heavily  emphasized  as  to  obscure  all  other  qualities, 
the  result  is  caricature.  The  term  is  also  applied  to  any  distortion  of  char- 
acter beyond  nature.  The  object  of  caricature  is  either  humorous  or  satiric, 
and  the  greatest  master  of  this  kind  of  characterization  in  English  is  Dickens. 

Does  the  dominant  trait  in  any  of  these  three  portraits  pass  over  into 

caricature?     Note  the  touches  by  which  Dickens's  persons  are  made  vivid. 

Aunt  Clara.  This  is  an  interesting  example  of  description  almost  entirely 
by  means  of  dress  and  ornament.  Is  the  character  of  the  person  kept 
clearly  in  view  in  the  course  of  the  description  ? 

Bud  Tilden.  The  chief  interest  of  this  description  lies  in  the  effectiveness 
with  which  point  of  view  is  employed  for  a  dramatic  purpose.  What  ar« 
the  details  which  reveal  the  painter's  interest  in  portraiture? 

Is  the  phrasing  of  the  last  sentence  entirely  clear? 


NOTES  647 

A  Group  of  Mourners.  This  is  not  properly  a  description  of  persons,  but 
has  the  interest  of  a  picture,  as  is  suggested  in  the  introductory  sentence, 
and  is  likewise  an  analysis  of  mental  states  as  represented  in  the  conduct 

of  the  chief  actors. Notice  what  might  be  called  the  lights  and  shadows 

of  the  picture.     Is  there  anything  in  the  composition  that  corresponds  to 

pictorial  balance? Compare  the  criticism  of  "The  Waverley  Novels," 

p.  203. 

415.  Wilkic,  Sir  David  (i 785-1841),  Scottish  painter.  "Rent  Day"  is 
probaby  his  best-known  character  picture. 

For  character  represented  by  action  or  dialogue  see  Narratives. 

MENTAL  STATES 

In  the  Hurricane.  A  mental  state  is  here  indicated  by  a  faithful  reproduc- 
tion, particularly  in  the  first  and  last  paragraphs,  of  the  train  of  images  and 
ideas  exactly  as  they  pass  through  the  person's  mind.  Does  the  analysis 
and  comment  of  the  intervening  paragraphs  heighten  the  effect  or  diminish 
it?     Does  this  description  have  unity? 

On  the  Wind  at  Night.  This  is  the  analysis  of  an  unusual  emotional  state, 
blending  with  a  description  of  the  physical  aspects  of  a  scene.  Do  the 
physical  and  emotional  elements  fuse  naturally  into  a  unified  description  ? 

422.  We  found  it  next  day,  etc.  Compare  this  sentence  with  the  last 
one  in  the  description.     Are  both  necessary?     Which  is  the  more  effective? 

NARRATIVE 

The  interest  of  a  narrative  depends  hardly  more  on  the  intrinsic  impor- 
tance of  the  event  than  on  the  manner  in  which  it  is  narrated.  The  most 
significant  occurrence  may  in  the  hands  of  the  unskilled  writer  become 
colorless  and  insipid,  while  the  veriest  trifle  maj'  be  endowed  with  sig- 
nificance or  impressiveness  by  a  master  of  the  art.  The  art  of  narration 
or  story- telling  is  essentially  the  same  whether  it  is  applied  to  everyday 
occurrences,  to  important  historical  events,  or  to  the  inventions  of  the 
artist's  brain.  In  all  a  single  definite  effect  must  be  aimed  at  by  means 
of  which  the  narrati\'c  attains  unity.  This  is  as  true  of  the  big  novel  with 
the  elaborate  plot  or  of  the  history  with  the  complicated  mass  of  events  as 
it  is  of  the  shortest  short  story  or  the  simplest  incident.  The  historian 
cannot  compose  his  account  of  Napoleon's  wars  until  he  has  discovered  some 
principle  underlying  and  explaining  them  —  Napoleon's  insatiable  lust  of 
power  or  the  revolt  against  the  established  monarchs  of  Europe  or  the 
undying  rivalry  of  France  and  England.  The  point  of  view  which  he 
selects  forms  his  unifying  theme  and  determines  the  selection  of  details  and 
their  proportion.  What  is  true  of  the  historian  of  Napoleon  should  be  true 
also  of  the  boy  who  wishes  to  give  an  account  of  a  day  spent  in  fishing. 
There  must  be  a  motive  to  give  consistency  and  form  to  the  account.     His 


648  NOTES 

fishing  was  pleasant  or  it  was  unpleasant,  successful  or  disappointing,  or 
its  iieynotc  might  even  be  its  absolute  uneventfulncss.  The  emphasis  of 
.iny  of  these  ideas  would  provide  a  point  of  view  in  the  light  of  which  the 
narrative  could  be  followed  as  something  single  and  consistent.  Certain 
details  would  then  naturallj'  be  given  prominence  as  contributing  most 
stroagly  to  illuminate  the  theme,  while  other  details  would  be  touched 
lightly  or  omitted  altogether  as  having  little  or  no  bearing  on  it.  This 
process  of  subordinating  the  less  important  and  eliminating  the  irrelevant 
is  what  brings  about  coherence.  Another  important  feature  of  narrative 
writing  is  the  arrangement  of  the  events  in  progressive  importance  to  some 
kind  of  culmination,  which  in  stories  with  a  plot  is  called  climax.  The 
interest  in  a  narrative  must  rise  and  be  sustained  till  the  story  is  completely 
told,  till  the  theme  or  idea  is  fidly  revealed.  In  the  case  of  a  story  with  a 
plot  we  say  that  suspense  should  be  maintained  till  the  climax,  but  anti- 
climax is  as  fatal  in  a  common  narrative  as  it  is  in  a  plot-story.  Great  care 
is  required  in  managing  the  ending,  the  typical  faults  in  student  composi- 
tions being  flatness  or  suspension  in  mid-air.  The  narrative  should  end 
with  some  point,  some  significant  touch,  or  with  a  reference  to  the  keynote, 
something,  at  any  rate,  that  will  make  the  conclusion  impressive  and  lend 
emphasis  to  the  dominant  tone  of  the  composition. 

ANECDOTE  AND   INCIDENT 

Anecdote  and  incident  are  defined  as  practically  identical  terms  in  the 
dictionary.  Both  refer  to  an  event  or  occurrence  having  an  independent 
interest,  as  distinguished  from  an  episode,  which  has  interest  only  in  rela- 
tion to  a  series  of  events  of  which  it  forms  a  single  link.  But  anecdote  has 
in  common  use  a  different  coloring  from  incident,  carrying  with  it  a  sug- 
gestion of  personality,  a  flavor  of  gossip.  .\n  anecdote  ought  to  be  charac- 
teristic, an  incident  need  not  be. 

Irish  Patriots.  This  anecdote  shows  how  a  small  incident  can  be  so 
treated  that  it  gains  a  kind  of  dramatic  interest.  Reduced  to  its  barest 
substance  it  tells  how  a  young  man,  dining  at  an  Irish  restaurant  without 
a  cent  in  his  pocket,  is  happily  mistaken  for  an  Irish  patriot  and  saved  from 
the  humiliation  of  parting  with  his  overcoat.  The  incident  gains  relief  in 
the  light  of  the  circumstances  which  lead  up  to  the  climax.  Not  only  is 
the  situation  prepared  but  the  action  is  made  plausible  by  the  preceding 
conduct  of  the  principal,  and  the  humor  of  the  scene  is  heightened  by  the 
character  of  his  mission  in  Boston.  The  elements  are  woven  into  an  ironic 
little  drama  illuminating  the  character  of  Irish  patriots  and  of  Labouchere. 

The  Tragedy  of  the  Mine.  This  is  an  excellent  example  of  interest  sus- 
tained at  a  high  pitch.  Though  a  note  of  tense  anticipation  is  struck  in 
the  opening  paragraph,  the  narrative  continues  to  ascend  with  really  breath- 
less interest  from  one  point  to  another.  The  horror  of  the  catastrophe  is 
first  suggested,  then  realized  in  a  succession  of  details  each  more  appalling 


NOTES  649 

than  the  one  before.  Notice  the  admirable  unifying  force  of  the  last  sen- 
tence. Are  there  any  details  which  detract  from  or  fail  to  contribute  to  the 
main  effect?     What  qualities  of  style  heighten  the  vividness  of  the  effect? 

426.    helmets.     For  an  explanation  of  these  helmets  see  p.  43. 

An  Elephant  Hunt.  Observe  that  the  objective  point  of  the  narrative  is 
announced  in  the  first  paragraph.  How  do  the  descriptive  details  that 
follow  bear  on  the  objective  point?  Does  the  interest  increase  with  the 
progress  of  the  narrative?  Where  does  the  action  culminate?  Is  the  last 
paragraph  necessary?  Is  it  effective?  Compare  the  pointed  conclusion 
in  "  The  Tragedy  of  the  Mine  "  with  the  elaborate  one  of  this  narrative 
and  the  appropriateness  of  each  to  their  respective  narratives.  Compare 
the  openings  of  the  two  narratives  in  the  same  light. 

BIOGRAPHY    AND   AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Jeanne  D'Arc.  Whereas  in  expository  biography  character  is  analyzed 
and  traits  are  e.xplained  by  reference  to  particular  actions,  in  the  biographical 
narrative  the  action  is  given  prominence  and  the  events  are  arranged  chrono- 
logically, the  character  being  inferred  from  the  action.  But  in  both  there 
must  be  the  same  unity  of  effect,  the  same  singleness  of  conception,  the  same 
selectiveness  of  detail  in  relation  to  the  single  efi'ect.  From  the  great  mass 
of  details  which  are  available  concerning  the  career  of  Joan  of  Arc,  the  his- 
torian has  chosen  a  few  which  combine  into  a  single  and  consistent  impres- 
sion. All  the  important  passages  in  her  life  are  recounted  and  her  conduct 
in  every  crisis  is  made  to  appear  as  a  revelation  of  her  spirit. 

Going  into  Business.  The  events  recounted  in  this  autobiographical 
chapter  are  various  in  kind  and  not  in  themselves  very  dramatic.  How 
has  the  writer  unified  them?  How  has  he  given  them  interest?  Is  the 
action  significant  of  character?  What  is  there  in  the  action  and  character 
that  is  t>'pical  of  more  than  the  individual  experience  of  the  writer?  Judg- 
ing by  this  chapter,  would  you  say  that  "  The  Making  of  an  American  " 
is  a  good  title  for  the  book  from  whicli  it  is  drawn?  Is  the  manner  of 
narration  suited  to  the  action?  Is  it  equally  characteristic  of  the  narrator? 
What  virtues  of  journalistic  writing  do  you  observe  in  the  style?  Does  it 
have  any  characteristic  defects?     Is  the  conclusion  effective? 

HISTORICAL   NARRATIVE 

The  three  historical  passages  here  given  represent  different  sorts  of 
material,  the  circumstances  attending  the  death  of  an  individual,  a  pic- 
turesque battle,  and  a  scene  of  state  significance.  In  all  three  the  aim  is 
to  present  the  occurrence  in  as  impressive  a  light  as  possible,  to  create  the 
effect  on  the  reader's  mind  which  the  importance  of  the  event  entitles  it 
to  have.  One  should  not  fall  into  the  mistake  of  sui>i)osing  that  because 
the  events  are  related  as  they  actually  happened,  the  narrative  is  therefore 


650  NOTES 

ready-made  to  the  historian's  pen.  The  historian,  like  the  novelist,  must 
exercise  his  imagination  to  visualize  the  event  if  his  presentation  is  to  have 
the  appearance  of  reality  and,  as  has  been  repeatedly  pointed  out  in  these 
notes,  he  must  concentrate  his  imagination  on  the  telling  features  if  his 
narrative  is  to  have  vividness.  Study  in  each  case  the  selection  of  details 
and  their  proportion,  the  preservation  of  a  dominant  tone,  the  progress  of 
the  action  to  a  culminating  point,  and  the  significant  sentences  with  which 
all  the  passages  terminate.  Observe  tliat  the  diction  and  the  sentence 
structure  have  a  kind  of  stateliness  and  formality  which  is  entirely  in  keep- 
ing with  the  dignity  of  the  subject.  Compare  their  language  with  that  of 
the  preceding  narratives. 

468.  Burnet,  Gilbert,  Bishop  of  Salisbury,  author  of  a  "  History  of  My 
Own  Time." 

Tcnison,  Thomas.  .Vrchbishop  of  Canterbury. 

460.  Sir  John  Knight,  "  the  j^ounger,"  a  member  of  Parliament  from 
Bristol  and  an  ardent  supporter  of  James  II. 

WagstaJ'e,  Thomas,  a  leader  of  the  non-jurors,  members  of  the  clergy 
who  refused  to  swear  allegiance  to  William  and  Marj'  when  those  mon- 
archs  displaced  James  II  after  the  revolution  of  1688. 

The  Beggars'  League.  In  the  sixteenth  century  the  Netherlands,  com- 
prising the  present  Holland  and  Belgium,  had  come  under  the  control  of 
Spain.  When  Philip  II,  in  his  zeal  for  the  Catholic  faith,  issued  an  order 
to  enforce  the  decrees  of  the  Council  of  Trent  and  redoubled  the  activity 
of  the  Inquisition,  the  resistance  of  the  Protestant  population  was  aroused. 
Their  most  respected  leaders,  such  as  William  of  Orange  and  Count  Egmont, 
for  a  time  took  no  active  part,  the  first  protest  being  made  by  a  "  Con- 
federation "  of  lesser  nobles  headed  by  Henrj',  Count  of  Brederode  and  Louis 
of  Nassau,  a  brother  of  William  of  Orange.  The  presentation  of  the  "  Re- 
quest," as  it  is  recounted  in  this  passage,  was  made  to  the  regent,  Margaret, 
Duchess  of  Parma,  in  her  palace  at  Brussels  on  April  5,  1566. 

471.  The  Emperor  had  given  away  his  crowns.  This  refers  to  the 
abdication  of  the  Emperor  Charles  V  in  fa\or  of  his  son  Philip  in  1555. 

ELEMENTS   OF  STORY-WRITING 

Jenny  at  the  Pump.  To  all  outward  appearance  this  passage  only  tells 
how  a  guest  at  an  inn  washed  himself  while  a  girl  pumped  the  water.  But 
out  of  this  trifling  material  Borrow  has  created  a  charming  bit  of  narrative 
b\'  clothing  it  in  a  style  of  humorous  pomp  and  circumstance.  The  mock 
gravity  with  which  the  slightest  details  are  recounted  is  deliciously  accen- 
tuated by  the  Homeric  epithets  and  the  simple  amplitude  of  the  Homeric 
sjTitax.     The  relish  of  the  passage  is  derived  altogether  from  the  style. 

Denry  at  the  Dance.  The  situation  here  is  of  interest  altogether  in  rela- 
tion to  character.  The  subordination  of  the  action  to  the  character  is 
apparent  in  the  structure  from  the  fact  that  though  the  most  striking 


NOTES  651 

situation  appears  in  the  first  part  of  the  narrative,  the  interest  in  the  hero's 
conduct  and  feeling  nevertheless  continues  to  increase.  What  is  the  effect 
of  having  the  most  striking  part  of  the  action  at  the  beginning?  Observe 
the  touches  by  which  the  subordinate  persons  are  characterized  in  a  brief 
space,  and  the  use  of  dialogue  to  suggest  character. 

The  Pursuit  of  the  Outlaw.  Dyke  was  an  engineer  who  had  been  dis- 
missed and  ruined  by  the  railroad  and  in  revenge  had  held  up  a  train  and 
killed  one  of  the  crew.  In  what  does  the  interest  of  this  episode  consist? 
Indicate  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  action  by  means  of  a  curve ;  does  it  show  a 
general  rise  to  the  end  ?  Observe  the  rapidity  of  movement  and  the  manage- 
ment of  suspense  and  surprise.  Do  you  approve  of  the  repeated  shifting 
of  the  point  of  view  from  Dyke  to  his  pursuers?  Could  the  action  have 
been  managed  more  successfully  from  a  single  point  of  view  ?  Does  the  in- 
terest flag  at  any  point?  Would  the  action  gain  in  effectiveness  by  con- 
centration? With  whom  does  the  reader  sympathize  in  the  struggle? 
What  bearing  does  the  last  sentence  have  on  the  reader's  sympathy? 

Nature  Speaks.  This  is  an  example  of  description  used  neither  as  orna- 
mentation nor  setting,  but  as  an  integral  part  of  the  action.  At  the  begin- 
ning the  manifestation  of  nature  symbolizes  in  its  hardness  the  insensible 
mood  of  the  hero,  then  in  its  successive  changes  it  stirs  and  moidds  and 
softens  liis  spirit  till  his  heart  is  opened  to  its  customary  feelings  and  sym- 
pathies, and  again  his  mood  is  symbolized  by  the  hopping  and  chirping  of 
the  birds,  and  the  warm,  fresh  sunlight  on  all  the  hills.  The  passage  may 
be  conceived  as  a  drama  in  which  Nature  is  the  principal  actor.  What  is 
the  function  of  the  leveret  in  tiic  development  of  the  drama?     What  is 

the  significance  of  the  chapel? Study  carefully  the  force  of  the  epithets 

in  the  entire  passage. 

THE  SHORT  STORY 

The  three  elements  that  go  to  the  making  of  a  short  story  are  plot,  char- 
acter, and  setting.  A  plot  is  a  series  of  events  arranged  in  the  order  of 
climax,  each  event  determining  and  being  determined  by  the  character 
involved.  The  most  effective  arrangement  of  the  events  is  the  same  in 
the  short  story  as  in  the  drama.  The  opening  division  or  movement  of 
the  story  brings  in  the  setting,  the  chief  characters,  and  the  circumstances 
which  will  produce  the  complication;  this  is  followed  by  the  complication 
and  the  reaction  of  the  characters  to  it,  leading  up  to  the  climax  which 
contains  the  crucial  situation  after  which  the  complication  is  resolved  by 
means  of  the  denouement.  To  present  character  it  is  necessary  to  show 
how  a  person  feels,  thinks,  and  acts  in  a  given  crisis.  The  emphasis  should 
be  decidedly  on  how  he  acts,  for  the  essence  of  drama,  whether  in  play  or 
story,  is  the  conduct  of  a  character  in  a  crisis.  Seeing  how  a  person  be- 
haves, we  may  be  able  to  infer  liis  feelings  and  his  thoughts.  The  purpose 
of  setting  is  to  limit  the  events  and  characters  in  time  and  place.  The 
setting  may  be  given  at  the  beginning  of  the  narrative  or  it  may  be  sug- 


05 J  NOTES 

geslcd  by  allusive  touches  throughout  the  story.  Local  color  and  atmosphere 
arc  aspects  of  setting.  Plot,  character,  and  setting  need  not  appear  in  every 
story,  certainly  not  with  equal  prominence.  When  all  three  do  appear, 
some  one  element  generally  predominates  to  such  an  extent  that  it  is  pos- 
sible to  speak  of  the  plot  story,  the  character  story,  and  the  local  color  or 
atmosphere  story. 

The  Sire  de  Maletroit's  Door  is  one  of  the  best  examples  in  English  of 
the  plot  story.  Does  the  introduction  arouse  the  reader's  interest?  Does 
it  suggest  the  kind  of  action  which  is  to  follow  ?  Note  the  point  at  which 
the  complication  begins,  the  repeated  introduction  of  surprise  to  stimulate 
interest  and  the  maintenance  of  suspense.  What  is  the  nature  of  the 
interest  during  the  crucial  scene?  What  is  the  justification  for  withholding 
from  the  reader  the  knowledge  of  the  events  which  preceded  the  opening 
of  the  story?  Could  the  stor^^  be  told  with  equal  effect  from  the  point  of 
view  of  Blanche  or  of  the  Sire  de  ilaletroit?  .\re  the  characters  conven- 
tional figures  of  romance?  Are  there  any  touches  by  which  the  persons 
in  the  story  are  hiunanized?  Is  the  mediaeval  atmosphere  kept  vividly 
before  the  reader  throughout  the  story?  Are  action,  character,  and  setting 
well  suited  to  one  another?  Would  a  plot  like  this  fit  well  into  a  modern 
setting? 

A  Gala  Dress.  This  is  a  stor>'  of  character  and  New  England  atmos- 
phere, of  the  small  adventures  which  constitute  the  great  ordeals  in  the 
lives  of  two  old  women.  Observe  that  the  introduction  contains  all  the 
materials  which  are  going  to  be  developed  in  the  storv' — the  contrasting 
characters  of  the  two  sisters,  their  mode  of  life,  the  social  atmosphere  of 
their  community,  the  character  of  the  neighbor  by  whose  instrumentality 
the  plot  is  complicated,  the  dress,  and  the  fire-crackers.  The  trifling  char- 
acter of  the  incidents  of  which  the  action  is  composed  in  a  storj-  like  this  is 
compensated  by  the  delicate  precision  and  faithful  elaboration  of  detail. 
Observe  how  character  and  setting  are  indistinguishably  blended,  and  how 
these  two  elements  are  brought  into  relief  by  the  unimportance  of  the 
events.  The  instantaneous  presentation  of  character  by  means  of  dialogue, 
the  use  of  dialect,  and  the  communication  of  a  slight  shock  in  the  ending 
are  features  which  should  be  studied. 

Mammon  and  the  Archer.  This  story  represents  a  ty^pe  in  which  the 
action  is  used  to  illustrate  an  idea.  Its  procedure  is  necessarily  somewhat 
different  from  that  of  other  stories.  The  action  does  not  progress  steadily 
to  a  climax,  but  is  introduced  incidentally.  Analyze  the  theme  of  the  story 
and  note  the  appropriateness  of  the  ending.  Is  the  action  fitted  skilfully 
into  the  story?  Could  the  point  of  view  have  been  better  preserved  by  a 
different  handling  of  the  action  ?  Is  the  principal  character  in  the  story 
especially  suited  to  the  theme?  Which  of  his  traits  are  more  prominent, 
the  t\T)ical  or  the  individual?  What  is  the  function  in  the  story  of  .\unt 
Ellen?  Is  the  scant  presentation  of  Richard  and  Miss  Lantry  in  keeping 
with  the  purpose  of  the  story? 


NOTES  653 

LETTERS 

Concerning  the  writing  of  letters  no  rules  can  be  definitely  set  down. 
The  tone  to  be  adopted  and  the  style  depend  entirely  on  the  subject  matter, 
the  occasion,  and  the  person  addressed.  Of  course  letters  should  be  written 
in  a  natural  vein,  as  should  all  other  types  of  composition,  but  the  natural- 
ness may  range  between  the  informality  of  personal  chat  and  the  lofty 
solemnity  of  Abraham  Lincoln's  letter  to  the  mother  whom  the  Civil  War 
had  bereaved  of  her  five  sons.  Under  no  circumstances  should  the  natural- 
ness of  a  letter  be  confused  with  negligence,  even  when  the  personal  utter- 
ance is  freest  and  fullest.  It  is  even  unsafe  to  say  that  a  letter  should  not 
aim  at  an  artistic  effect,  although  there  should  be  no  apparent  striving 
after  effect.  In  letters  as  elsewhere,  what  is  worth  communicating  at  all 
is  worth  communicating  properly,  and  in  a  broad  way  the  principles  that 
apply  to  other  kinds  of  composition  apply  also  to  the  art  of  letter-writing. 

All  the  letters  should  be  examined  for  the  adaptation  of  the  manner  to 

the  substance  and  the  person  addressed. 

543.  It  is  worth  noticing  that  the  incident  here  narrated  by  Swift  was 
utilized  by  Thackeray  in  "  Henry  Esmond." 

544.  Johnson.     See  note  to  p.  15. 
Chesterfield.     See  note  to  p.  210. 

545.  Charles  Lamb  to  William  Wordsworth.  This  is  the  second  half 
of  a  letter  the  first  half  of  which  is  composed  of  observations  on  the  second 
volume  of  Wordsworth's  "  Lyrical  Ballads  "  (1800). 

546.  laughed  with  dear  Joanna.  This  is  Joanna  Hutchinson,  the  sister 
of  Wordswor»,th's  wife.  Joanna  and  her  laugh  form  the  subject  of  the  second 
of  the  "  Poems  on  the  Naming  of  Places  "  in  the  1800  volume. 

D.,  the  poet's  sister  Doroth}^ 

Barbara    Lewthwaite.     "  Little  Barbara  Lewthwaite,  a  child  of    beauty 
rare,"  is  the  heroine  of  Wordsworth's  "  The  Pet  Lamb." 
my  play,  Lamb's  tragedy  of  "  John  Woodvill." 

550.  Tom  Moore,  the  poet  of  "Lalla  Rookh"  and  Irish  sentimental  songs. 
Gray,  Thomas   (1716-1771),   the  author  of    the  "  Elegy  Written   in  a 

Country  Churchyard,"  holds  a  high  place  among  English  poets,  though  the 
volume  of  his  verse  is  very  scant. 

551.  Lloyd.     Lloyd  Osborne ,  Stevenson's  step-son. 

Trelawney,  Edward  John  (1792-1881),  the  friend  of  Byron  and  Shelley, 
and  a  sailor  with  an  adventurous  career. 
F.,  Stevenson's  wife. 


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